The Lamplight Letters
by northelypark
Summary: Before the Mobile Fortress wreaked havoc upon London, before the Crown Petone set sail on its sole voyage, thirteen-year-old Amelia Ruth and fifteen-year-old Clive Dove were schoolmates at Dreycott School in London. Amelia's first term is only just underway when Clive enlists her help in uncovering a terrible secret lurking in Dreycott's shadows. But Clive has secrets of his own...
1. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

I was thirteen-years-old when I first met Clive. At the time, I was a small and bony sort of creature, built with sharp elbows, knobbly knees, and visible ribs that poked up from under my skin like bumps in a road. So skinny was I, in fact, that my new socks kept slipping down my legs and bunching around my ankles as I wandered the grounds of my equally new home: Dreycott School.

It was quite intimidating to a young girl like myself, or anyone really, for that matter. The school looked more like a medieval fortress than any sort of place where children were welcome. A massive structure of gray stone topped with battlements and turrets, it reminded me of a bank of heavy-laden storm clouds that had managed to touch the earth. In many places thick shrouds of ivy had crept across the surface of the stones, so that the entire building was rather mottled.

Although I was certainly no expert on the matter, I quickly realized the place must have been built in increments, perhaps the work of several successive mad architects, as it seemed to have no symmetry or balance or any sort of continuity whatsoever. It sprawled haphazardly this way and that, flinging sharp corners and sloping rooftops in all directions. Two enormous wings jutted from the building at odd angles like broken arms. Between them lay the lawn, locked in a crooked embrace. The lawn itself was overgrown with bushes and trees and cut in half by a crumbling gravel walk that meandered past benches and a fountain. Wrapped about the whole mess was a wrought iron fence, looking useless and far too delicate in comparison to the behemoth structure it contained.

To tell the truth, there was a distinct air of abandonment about the place, as if I were alone among undiscovered ruins, a feeling which happened to suit me just fine. The day had been long and after the events of the evening had ended, I had fled to the lawn in need of solitude. Here I could think in peace about all that had happened that day and all that was to come.

Could it really have been only that morning that I had said goodbye to my family? So much had happened since then that it felt like a month had passed.

"It will be difficult at first, Amelia," My mother had told me as she fixed the collar of my jacket, the sound of the train's engine rumbling behind us. My mother was a small, tidy woman, her dark hair pinned up neatly beneath her hat. She glanced at my baggy socks, looking as if she wanted to adjust them as well, "It's difficult for everyone who leaves home, but it always gets better."

"That's right," my father had piped up. In contrast to my mother, he wore wrinkled trousers and a watch that rattled on his thin wrist. His golden blond hair matched my own, except his was receding while mine hung in two thick plaits tied with navy blue ribbons. "Before you know it you'll be meeting interesting people and making friends, having all sorts of grand experiences you'd never find at home."

"Grand experiences, yes," my granddad added, slowly raising his patchy eyebrows. He was similar in appearance to my father, but saggier, scruffier even. His eyes, though, were always keen as ice. "But I daresay you'll have a few miserable ones as well."

"Dad!"

My granddad stepped closer to me and placed a bony hand on my shoulder.

"Now, I'm not trying to frighten you, Amelia. But you must know that out there on your own you'll run into all sorts of people. Every one like a piece on a chessboard, each with their own patterns, their own schemes, their own way of walking through the day. "

My father rolled his eyes, but I could see a smile trying to break through on his lips.

"Dad, not another chess analogy."

I didn't bother hiding my smile.

"Don't listen to him, grandad. _I_ like them."

"Erm, yes, what was I saying again-Ah! Yes! Chessboard. People." My grandfather scratched his scrubby gray blond beard, "All different kinds. Each moving across the grand board of life in their own way, each with their own perspective. You will simply be acquainted with most, while with some you will inevitably clash. And then there will be those precious few who have your best interests at heart. Look for those who are sincere and thoughtful, who don't think they have all the answers, but have strong convictions nonetheless. Look for-"

A train whistle blew and the guard issued a final call for passengers.

"Oh, dear. I'm out of time. Anyway, take this," My grandfather pulled something from his jacket pocket and held it out to me. It was a piece from his favorite chess set, a king made of polished mahogany.

"Take this and remember me and remember that people are pieces on a chessboard-well, no, they're _like_ pieces, no wait, what I meant is people are like a chessboard and, you see-"

"Thank you, grandad," I reached out and hugged him about his middle, "I understand what you mean...I think."

The goodbyes, I love yous, and promises to write often being said in short order, I placed the chess piece in my pocket, picked up my suitcase, and straightened my shoulders. As I headed to the train, I looked back just once, to wave and to capture a final snapshot of my family. My father smiling encouragingly. My mother returning my wave. And my grandfather slowly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose in his own funny manner of farewell. Then I was aboard a car and the door was shut behind me. On my way to London, to Dreycott-all on my own.

The trickle of the fountain pulled me out of my memory. It was coming up upon my left. As I drew nearer to it, I slipped my grandfather's king out of my pocket and rubbed it between my fingers thoughtfully, feeling quite torn in two. As excited as I was to be at the school I had dreamed for years of attending, I also wanted desperately to be back home in the settled rhythm of my old habits, among the people I knew best. Today had been anything but settled. After I had finally arrived in London and taken a bus to the school, a flurried succession of activities had followed, each one beginning before the previous had scarcely been completed. The sound of the fountain faded as I let myself retrace the events of the afternoon, after I had finally arrived at Dreycott.

Two older pupils, a boy and girl who looked to be twins and wore matching silver sashes, had been waiting in the foyer of the school to greet me and the other first-year pupils. They introduced themselves as Greta and Garret, the official Dreycott Welcoming Committee. Once all of the pupils had been accounted for, they divided us into two groups. Garret broke off with the boys, while Greta wasted no time ushering us girls in the opposite direction. She marched us through several long hallways, pointing at doorways left and right, and snapping out directions, instructions, and the odd historical fact about our new surroundings. Hurrying through such an enormous place left me so dizzy I didn't quite comprehend what was happening when Greta stopped at the start of yet another hallway and handed each girl a numbered key. Mine read "16" and I stood staring at it until Greta spoke up.

"Start unpacking, ladies. Supper will be in half an hour."

With that she was gone, leaving all of us to find our respective rooms. Beyond the door that matched my key, I found a small space crammed with a bed, a desk with a lamp, and a set of drawers. I set to work unpacking and had only just finished when a knock signaled it was time for dinner. This was a whirlwind of new faces, long tables, clattering forks, and food that tasted too unfamiliar to be of any comfort. I thought longingly of my bed throughout, but my hopes were dashed when we were all ordered to a welcoming assembly in the school's impressive lecture theatre. This assembly stood out the most in my mind. It had made me wonder if Dreycott was truly the place I wanted to be.

When I had first walked through the doors and into the theatre, I had to stand for a moment and turn in a small, slow circle in order to take everything in. The hall was much like a traditional theatre, with a pitched floor and sloped seating arranged in a semicircle around a stage with a single microphone attached to a stand. Unlike a traditional theatre, however, the hall had windows which were narrow and so tall that they almost touched the vaulted ceiling.

Outside the sunlight looked tarnished and nearly spent. I folded my arms tightly across my chest as I took a seat and waited for the assembly to begin, wishing my jacket was heavier. All around me pupils were sliding into seats, talking and fidgeting. A group of distinguished looking adults, teachers presumably, sat near the front of the hall close to the stage, as did a group of around twenty or so pupils who each wore a silver sash, just as Greta and Garret had.

I was just wondering about these sashes when a hush fell across the hall and a thin, elegant woman strode towards the stage. It was hard to tell her age, especially from afar, but I could see that her hair was a silvery gray that fell nearly to her shoulders in a smooth sheet. She wore a fashionably tailored pinstripe suit that was several shades darker than her hair and heels that echoed grandly as she ascended the stage.

The woman deattached the microphone from its stand and silently gazed out over the crowd. Finally, she spoke.

"I want to welcome you all to Dreycott School. For all of those among you who are new to our school this year, I want to extend a special greeting. I am Professor Rosen, the headmistress here at Dreycott. For almost six hundred years our school has been providing pupils with the finest education London has to offer."

There was a smattering of applause, most of it originating from the teachers and sash-wearing pupils. The professor continued.

"Throughout the years our school has molded some of the most brilliant minds of today. Names such as Oswald Whistler and Bill Hawks come to mind."

Oswald Whistler, that pianist with the wild hair, and Bill Hawks, a member of parliament or something. I wondered how many other famous faces had crossed Dreycott's threshold. It was somewhat thrilling to think my new school had once been the home of such talented individuals.

"I want you all to know that this legacy will continue. I understand that some of you are still concerned by the accidents that occurred last term, but I want to assure you that I have taken every possible measure to ensure that such accidents will never happen again. These measures will involve some changes here at Dreycott, changes that will affect all of you in one way or another, but I assure you that they will be implemented first and foremost for your safety."

I could hear muttered conversations rippling across the room, as pupils wondered aloud to their friends about the changes. I myself wondered what accidents Rosen was referring to. I felt an odd tingle in the pit of my stomach, but the headmistress was talking again and so I ignored it.

"I hope that every one of you here today will strive to greet this new term with a fierce hunger for knowledge and a desire to achieve. When my grandfather, the late Headmaster Arthur Rosen, embarked upon the difficult journey of reopening this school, he had nothing more than the empty shell of a building to work with. Today that empty shell has become a hallowed institute of learning, a bastion of knowledge, a place where the wisdom of the past nourishes the men and women of the future."

The audience broke into applause again and the headmistress bowed her head in acknowledgment. When the clapping died down she looked up and stood a little taller.

"Before I dismiss this assembly, I would like to make a special announcement. Eric Hilberg, would you please stand and approach the stage?" Everyone in the room shifted their gaze to a confident looking young man with glasses striding towards the stage.

Professor Rosen had, in the meantime, retrieved a length of silvery material. When Eric Hilberg stepped up onto the stage, Professor Rosen held up the material.

"I hereby dub Eric Hilberg the newest member of the Dreycott Patrol." The crowd began to applaud again as the headmistress looped the material diagonally across Eric's chest and pinned it into placing, forming a sash.

When she was finished, Professor Rosen turned back to the crowd.

"The Dreycott Patrol is comprised of those pupils who have shown themselves to be especially honorable, diligent, and disciplined in all aspects of life here at Dreycott. They are an integral part of our school, helping to maintain order and provide guidance to all other pupils. May each and every one of you strive to reach their lofty ranks. Thank you all for your time. Good night and good luck to you all. _Praeteritum est, non tacet_."

As the hall echoed with applause for a final time, the headmistress descended the stage and was lost in the crowd of teachers and patrollers who were surrounding Eric Hilberg, offering him congratulatory handshakes and shoulder pats. Everyone else began to trickle out of the hall, chatting and laughing, relieved that the assembly was over.

The feeling inside me was growing stronger and, as I stood, I realized it was not so much a tingle as an ache. The professor's mention of accidents had unsettled me, but I wasn't sure this was the only reason for my weariness. As I passed a window on my way out of the hall, I saw the empty lawn and suddenly that was the only place I wanted to be.

Now the light was very dim. With a sigh, I stopped to examine the fountain, which was like none other I had seen. It was certainly old. The stone was very worn and much of it had been claimed by pale green lichen. At its center was a statue of a young girl upon a pedestal, carved with exquisite detail. Her dress looked stiff and formal, but her long hair was loose, appearing to be tousled by the very breeze that stirred my own. She was holding a wide-mouth vase from which poured forth a steady trickle of water into a pool at her feet. The girl's eyes were downcast, looking empty and sad, as she stood performing her unceasing task. I looked up into those eyes and felt an odd sense of kinship.

Exhausted, I sat down on the edge of the fountain and rolled my grandad's king between my fingers, trying not to think, not to let my fears overwhelm me, but to simply exist in the moment, to feel the breeze against my cheek, the gentle swaying of my braids. I closed my eyes, but only for a moment. They quickly snapped open again at the sound of a voice calling across the lawn.

"See, I told you. Over there!"

In the deepening twilight it was hard to make out anything other than three figures striding towards me, a short figure leading two taller ones. In a minute they were close enough that I could identify them as a girl and two boys, fellow pupils, who looked to be several years older than myself, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. The girl suddenly broke off from the group, her stride quickening.

"You there," she said and stopped, standing right over me. She had a thick copper ponytail and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. Her arms were folded across her chest. The girl smiled, but it didn't look at all friendly.

"You were right, Stewart," she said, turning to the shorter of the two boys as they joined her. The boy Stewart's face, long and bony with saucer eyes, lit up.

"Of course I was right. I mean, I wouldn't drag you out here for nothing, would I? I mean, have I ever dragged you out here for-"

"Shuttup, Stewie," the other boy muttered. He had broad, mountain-like shoulders and neatly parted brown hair. Perched upon his nose like a delicate insect were small wire-rimmed glasses. I couldn't help but think he looked a bit like a gorilla turned scholar. Both he and the girl were wearing silver sashes. Patrollers. The girl held out a hand.

"I'm Vivian Chesterham."

"Amelia," I said as we shook, "Amelia Ruth."

Stewart moved forward as if to shake my hand as well, but Vivian firmly shoved him back.

"It looks like you're one of the new arrivals. That must be why you're still out here."

"What?"

Vivian sighed.

"Listen. We have rules here at Dreycott, Amelia. Rules that form the very backbone of our institution. But what happens when those rules are ignored...?"

I could tell this was a speech she'd given before, one which she relished delivering.

"Anarchy, right? I mean, that's what it's called right?" Stewart looked to his comrades for confirmation but Vivian only gave him a sharp look.

"When the rules are ignored, our school ceases to function properly. Thus, someone has to enforce those rules. That's us. The Dreycott Patrol." Vivian indicated her silver sash, faintly glinting in the dying light. "You no doubt heard all about us at tonight's assembly. I'm head of the girls' House myself."

"Oh, I see," I hesitated, "Did I... do something wrong?"

Vivian sighed again and I could hear plainly her exasperation.

"Must I make this so obvious? You are out past curfew, Ruth. Curfew is nine o'clock sharp. You should know this."

"I'm sorry. I must have lost track of the time." I replied, my voice even softer than usual.

Vivian appeared to take my words in a very wrong way. Her eyes narrowed, her brow lowered, and her lips pressed together, until her whole face was scrunched into an expression of utter disgust.

"No excuses. Did you even read the school handbook?"

"Yes." I tried to steady my voice, but my next words came out in a sudden spill of choppy fragments. "I did read it. But I wasn't paying attention. I didn't realize it was so late. I'm sorry. I'll go to bed now." I started to rise from the fountain's edge, but the larger boy held up a hand.

"Not so fast," he said, "Because you broke the rule you have to pay a fine. Isn't that right, Vivian?"

"That's right. The handbook says so in Chapter 8, section 19."

"I believe it's section 18, but never mind that." The large boy adjusted his glasses with a beefy hand and raised an equally beefy eyebrow at me. I felt a horrible dread begin to uncoil inside of my stomach.

"A fine? But I don't have any money with-"

Vivian held up her own hand. Her eyes shifted focus towards my lap.

"Never mind that. What's that you have there in your hand?"

I blushed, not sure how to explain.

"It's-it's from my grandfather. He loves chess and-"

In one smooth movement, Vivian plucked the king from my hand and held it up to the fading light, squinting at it.

"Hmm." She tossed it to the bigger boy, who seemed to be having trouble keeping his trousers up. Despite my unease, I felt a spurt of faint relief at not being the only one with a wardrobe malfunction.

"What do you think, Trevor? Worth anything?"

Trevor looked at the piece carefully.

"It's a bishop, I think."

"It's a king," I couldn't help saying.

Trevor ignored me. He scratched the surface of the piece with his fingernail.

"Looks to be made of wood."

"Valuable wood?" Vivian demanded.

"Can wood be valuable? I mean it can...right?" Stewart looked unsure.

"Could I have it back now?" My voice was firm, even though it felt like little icy snakes were slithering inside of me.

Vivian leaned in close and smiled again. I could smell a strong flowery perfume wafting off of her clothes. More suitable for a sentimental old grandmother, I thought, than a school girl.

"Your little trinket will do nicely," she said, her voice sweeter than her perfume, "Now get to the dormitories, please. Chop chop."

My mouth dropped open. I could think of a thousand things to say but not one came out. I opened and closed my mouth several times, trying to find a crumb of nerve.

"Hey, look," Stewart said, grinning stupidly, "She looks like a fish, right? I mean she does, just look at her."

Vivian straightened and snatched my king out of Trevor's hand. "Enough, Stewart. Let's go. I think I saw someone else over by that tree."

Without another look, the three strode off. Soon their figures were almost lost in the gloom. The shivery snakes inside me were growing colder and it felt like they were devouring me from the inside out. I knew it was just a chess piece, but it was also a bit of home, a small comfort in an unfamiliar place. What would become of it? Tucked away in a drawer next to slingshots and confiscated love notes probably, in an office in some far-flung corner of the school. Who knew if I would ever see it again? I felt a terrible helplessness grip me, the kind you feel in a dream when everything is falling to pieces. I began shaking. They just couldn't take that from me. They just couldn't.

It was then that my body finally unlocked itself from whatever trance it had been held under. I leapt up from the fountain and raced after the trio.

"Wait!"

Vivian ignored me, quickening her pace. I caught up to her, panting as I attempted to match her stride.

"Give that back! Please! I'll go to bed straightaway. I promise. Just give it back."

Vivian examined the piece once more and let out a small scoff.

"What's so special about this? It's pretty worthless without the rest of the set."

"I told you. My grandad gave it to me before I left for school."

"Oh, your grandad?" Trevor smirked, "Must be quite the kook if he thinks some chintzy game token is a proper gift."

Stewart started snickering and my eyes flashed hotly with tears. The iciness twisting inside me turned bright and livid as dragon's fire. Maybe if I hadn't been so exhausted, so frustrated by everything that had happened that day I wouldn't have done what I did next. I lunged sideways, towards the piece held in Vivian's hand. The girl quickly stepped out of my reach and I slammed into Trevor instead.

"Hey, watch it!"

In one swift move, he shoved me aside. I stumbled, tripped over what I think was Stewart's foot, then hit the ground, the air tearing itself from my body. My tears blurred my vision as I gasped for breath.

"That was a warning, Ruth. Never interfere with the Dreycott Patrol. Now off to bed with you." Vivian brushed past me and continued across the grass, the boys close behind, smirking down at me. I wanted to chase after them, to rip their stupid little sashes off, to snatch my king back and fly off into the night, onto a rooftop where they could never reach me. But I could only lay in the cold grass, panting in competition with my racing heart.

"Give it back, Vivian."

The sound of dry grass rustling. Twisting my head to the side, I saw a pair of shoes materializing out of the gathering gloom. My eyes traveled up past a pair of trousers, a gray blazer, and into the defiant face of a boy with unruly hair. His left eye was open merely a slit, surrounded by a dark purple bruise.

Vivian stopped again. She was really starting to look peeved.

"Dove? Is that you? I am sorry, but if you have problem with us doing our jobs you're going to have to take it up with Professor Rosen." Vivian tauntingly waved the king in front of the boy, "Unless you want Trevor to do some more work on your face. It's not very symmetrical right now, you know. But he could fix that easily."

Trevor took a step toward the boy. His pants sagged slightly, but he regained composure by hoisting them up in a menacing manner. The boy took his own step forward. For a tense moment, I thought a scuffle might break out, but then a sly smile crept onto the boy's face.

"Oh, Vivian, I forgot to mention that Professor Xander has been looking for you. He's curious to know who was rifling through his desk earlier today. His _locked_ desk, I should add. You're part of the Patrol. You would surely have some idea who did it."

Vivian's expression remained unchanged, but I could see her cheeks flush scarlet.

"And what if someone were given permission to do that?"

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders indifferently.

"Either way, I'm sure he'd love to know who did it."

Vivian threw the king onto the ground.

"Fine, have it. But next time you get in my way, Dove, you'll have a matching set."

Vivian grabbed her two friends by the backs of their collars and hauled them across the lawn. When they were well enough away, the boy scooped up the king and turned back to me. I quickly wiped the tears out of my eyes as he offered me a hand.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. I'm fine, thanks." I managed as he pulled me up. I knew I was in pitiful shape right then, sniffing and shaking, dead leaves in my braids, my socks drooping at my ankles. My flicker of inner fire had utterly abandoned me, as had any sense of dignity. I had never felt so stupid before. My face began to burn with shame. _Leave, just go away_ , I thought, as I brushed myself off, not daring to look up at the boy. But he didn't leave. Instead, he placed the king in my palm.

"Think nothing of it. My name is Clive. Clive Dove."

I looked up. The boy's tawny bangs brushed just up against his bruised left eye. As I noticed this, he carelessly swept them to the side, but they immediately fell back into place.

"Amelia Ruth."

"It's nice to meet you, Amelia Ruth. Sorry you had to meet Vivian on your first day."

"Professor Rosen, she-she made them out to be so wonderful," I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

"That's Rosen for you. Runs this place like a battleship."

"But your eye, that's awful! Does no one care?"

Clive frowned.

"Hardly," he muttered. He quickly glanced down at the king, "I take it you like chess?"

"Yes, that's right. But not as much as my grandfather. He's the one who taught me, you see, and gave me this, for luck, I suppose."

"You've already signed up for the chess club, I'm sure."

I nodded.

"We'll have to play a game together sometime. They keep a set in the library, you know."

"Oh, yes, I'd like that."

My eyes drifted down to my baggy socks. I felt shy all of the sudden, not at all an uncommon occurrence for me, but annoying just the same. I wanted to say something, anything really, but nothing would come out. Finally, Clive stifled a yawn as he looked about the darkening lawn, "I don't know about you, but I'm getting rather tired."

"Yes... it's been a long day."

"Come on, then, we can walk to the dormitories together."

I followed Clive across the lawn, around the corner of the west wing, and through a neglected-looking side entrance into a dimly lit hallway.

"Just go up those stairs to the left and you'll be at the girls' dormitory. The boys' is down this hall."

"Alright, then," I hesitated a moment, then held out my hand. "Er, thank you, again. For standing up to Vivian."

Clive took my hand and shook it.

"Of course. But remember, you owe me a game of chess." With a wave, he headed off down the hallway and was gone. I blinked, realizing I was all alone. Had he been a ghost, some sort of specter who appeared only at dusk? He had come and gone so quickly, it seemed a definite possibility. But no. I gripped my recovered king piece. I was only tired. Turning, I started up the stairs. I took each step slowly, not only so that they wouldn't creak, but also because I needed time to think.

My grandfather had told me about three different kinds of people I'd meet.

 _You will simply be acquainted with most._

It was true, I had met more than my fair share of staff, teachers, and classmates that day; all blurring together into a sea of blue and silver uniforms.

 _With some you will clash._

Vivian's smirk, Trevor's beady eyes shining behind his glasses, Stewart's scraggly hair topping his long face, each passed through my mind in turn. I never would have imagined I would clash with the Patrol and on my very first day. Were they all going to be as bad as Vivian and Trevor?

 _And then there will be those precious few who have your best interests at heart_. Could Clive be of the third kind? If so, then I would have to return the favor. I didn't know how, but I would try and look out for him, as he had for me. His black eye was emblazoned in my mind; a darkened stamp that rekindled something within me that I was sure had gone out.

Reaching my room, I kicked off my shoes and socks then slipped between the covers of my new bed, not even bothering with pajamas. So many loud thoughts were clamoring for my attention: the accidents Rosen spoke of, the Patrol, the food, my family. But beneath all of these thoughts was a different one that was growing quietly, but insistently. I just couldn't quite grasp it.

Before long, my eyes grew heavy as marbles and their lids closed of their own accord. My heartbeat settled into a soft rhythm, my breath became slow and deep. Silence prevailed.

It was then that the thought finally crept in, like a sprout imperceptibly pushing its head through the topsoil.

 _I have a friend at Dreycott._

And whether or not it was actually true, for the first time since I'd left the railway station, I let myself smile.


	2. Chapter Two

**The Story So Far...**

 _Amelia Ruth is attending Dreycott School, a prestigious independent school in London. During her first evening at the school she has a run-in with the Dreycott Patrol, an authoritarian group of pupils who act as prefects under the headmistres Professor Rosen and ends up meeting fellow pupil Clive Dove. Now her first full day at Dreycott is dawning..._

 **Chapter Two**

When my grandfather was a boy, very near the age that I was, he, too, attended Dreycott School. It was the most wonderful season of his life, he told me many years later. The stories from his time at the school were ones peppered with unusual, and often humorous, incidents. There was the story about the old teacher who collected masks from ancient cultures and hung them on every surface of his classroom so that his pupils were surrounded by the countenances of grotesque devils and feral animals with cold-blooded sneers. And then there was the time he and his friends found a hidden passageway in one of the hallways, only to discover that it lead straight to the headmaster's study. My grandfather would always chuckle as he described to me the moment he emerged from the passageway, covered in dust and cobwebs, and witnessed the headmaster's completely terrified expression.

Fed continually by these stories, I dreamt of Dreycott as a young girl. I wanted to walk down those same halls with my own band of friends, to sit chatting for hours with an interesting teacher over a chess set and a pot of earl grey, to settle in one of the library's famously plush armchairs with a good book, or watch rain drip from the eaves on cold autumn evenings. My grandfather knew all this. He spent many a long evening trying to convince my parents that I should go, at least for a year, and saved up every scrap of money he had to ensure they could afford the steep tuition. He schooled me himself for the entrance exam. He gave me every advantage he could offer. Now, here I was, finally at Dreycott School. But as I woke up that morning to the sound of a shrill cry, it was the very last place I wanted to be.

As the sound faded, I remained in bed, motionless save for my fluttering eyelids, still sticky from sleep. A shaft of gray light pushing its way through my one small window allowed me to dimly distinguish the shapes of the room's sparse furniture, my desk, my dresser, and my empty suitcase huddled near the door. My eyes slowly closed again. I vaguely hoped that when they finally reopened I would be in my bedroom at home, instead of this cold, gloomy place haunted only by some ghastly shrieking ghost.

 _Shhhhhhrreeeeeeeee!_

I sat up. The ghost was at it again, followed by knocking. It sounded faint at first, but drew closer and closer until it landed upon my door, a swift _thump, thump, thump_ that finally cleared the last bit of mist from my head. I pushed myself out of bed, my toes curling in protest against the cold wood floor. As the high-pitched shrieking began for the third time, I changed into some fresh clothes. A fourth shriek. Quickly, I brushed out my tangled hair with merciless strokes, redid my braids, grabbed my school bag, and exited the room.

A large crowd of girls was gathered at the far end of the hall which opened into a spacious common room populated with several sofas, a low table, a bookcase and a fire place. The hearth was entertaining only a pile of ashes at the moment. In front of it stood three girls who, unsurprisingly, all wore sashes. Standing in the middle was Vivian, one hand on her hip, the other holding a silver whistle to her lips. She looked ready to blow it again before she caught sight of me and a few other stragglers who had joined the back of the crowd. Vivian lowered the whistle with a sharp nod of approval.

"Good. Looks like we're all here." Vivian folded her arms, her eyes roving sternly across the group, "I've introduced myself to some of you, but not all. I am Vivian Chesterham, member of the Patrol and deputy head girl. These are my assistants, Juliet and Ursula. We are responsible for the girls' dormitories and that includes all of you. We're here to make sure you're happy, comfortable, well-adjusted, and most importantly following the rules."

 _Here we go again_ , I thought. I couldn't be sure, but it seemed Vivian was glaring straight in my direction. She picked up a nearby book and held it up for all to see. It was fairly thick with a gray and blue cover, matching the uniform that each of us wore.

"Each of you was sent a handbook like this one before the term began. I trust you all brought it with you. Read it, front and back. Several times if you must. You should also know that several changes are being made this year." Ursula, or maybe Juliet, handed Vivian a sheet of paper, which she quickly scanned before looking back up at us.

"Curfew is now eight o'clock for all pupils. Lights out by nine."

There was considerable commotion among the group as girls shifted and muttered to one another.

"Also know that the east wing of the school beyond the dining hall is currently out of bounds for all pupils, specifically the rotunda and the surrounding hallways. Any and all classes in that area have been moved elsewhere. Speak with one of us if you need help finding a class."

I almost had to laugh. I couldn't imagine Vivian stooping to help someone locate a classroom.

"If you read the handbook and follow the Patrol you'll have nothing to worry about. But for any of you who like dancing on the edge of the line." Vivian smacked the whistle into her left palm, "I'll have you know that the Patrol is vested with full authority to discipline and punish as they see fit. If you-"

Vivian was interrupted by a long, low creak. Everyone turned to see a door slowly opening down the hallway. A girl peered out. She had a round face accompanied by equally round glasses, and dark hair so thick and long it nearly reached her waist.

"Sorry," she said with a small wave, "Don't mind me." She hopped out of her room tugging up a sock with one hand, her other hand clutching her shoes to her chest.

I heard several giggles and snickers scattered here and there. With a frown, Vivian pushed her way through the crowd, strode down the hallway, and latched onto the girl's arm just as she was bending over to slip on her shoes. The girl stumbled, then straightened, leaving her shoes behind as Vivian dragged her toward the common room.

"Hey, wait!"

Ignoring both the girl's protest and the increasing laughter, Vivian pulled the girl back through the crowd and to the front of the room.

"Thank you, Gemma." she said, finally letting go of the girl's arm, "You've given me the perfect opportunity to demonstrate exactly what discipline looks like here at Dreycott."

"Er, you're welcome." Gemma had just a hint of a smile dancing on her lips, "But can I retrieve my shoes first?"

"No." Vivian tilted her head at Ursula, who dragged a wooden chair over. "Stand up here." Gemma complied. "Now, why don't you sing for us a few verses from Dreycott's official anthem to help us start our day? It is found on page four of the handbook. Loud and clear, now, so we all can hear."

Gemma's ghost smile was gone. She shuffled her socked feet on the chair, her cheeks reddening.

"The song...er...ah...hmm. Might I take a quick little peek? You know, in the handbook?" Gemma pinched her finger and thumb together to show how little a peek she meant to take.

"You mean to tell me you don't know our song?" Vivian clicked her tongue.

"Er, well, maybe not all of it." Gemma mumbled. She was glaring at her feet now.

"What was that? Say it so everyone may hear, 'I, Gemma Mudget, do not know Dreycott's official anthem'. Watch your eye contact too."

Gemma let out a long breath, then she looked back up at the crowd.

"I-" she swallowed, "Gemma Mudget, do not know Dreycott's official anthem."

"Really? You don't know it? Did everyone here that?" Vivian's voice dripped with mock surprise.

There was silence in the common room. I wanted to step forward and say something, but my feet felt locked in place, my tongue a useless tangle in my mouth. Vivian seemed pleased by the silence. She looked back up at Gemma standing rigidly on the chair.

"After lunch today, come find me in the library. You will write out the lyrics for the entire anthem twenty-five times, once for each minute you were late." Vivian turned to the rest of us, "Do you ladies think this is a fitting punishment for Miss Mudget?"

There were a few quiet replies.

"Well?"

"Yes!" the cry rang out.

Vivian waved dismissively at us.

"Excellent. Now, off to breakfast."

The gathering of girls quickly dispersed down the hallway. I did likewise until I saw Vivian and her friends turn the corner. Once I was sure they were out of sight, I picked up Gemma's shoes off the floor and walked back towards the common room. She was alone now, sitting on the wooden chair, her head resting on her hands as she stared at the floor.

"Here." I handed them to her. She looked up and gave me a small, gloomy smile. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but I had met so many pupils since arriving at Dreycott that their faces and names had started to jumble together.

"Thanks." Gemma sighed as she slipped her shoes onto her feet, "I was a real idiot up there, wasn't I?"

"No. It's Vivian. She could make anyone feel stupid." I let out my own sigh, "I should know."

Gemma studied my face for a second.

"You're new, right? I'm Gemma."

"Amelia Ruth."

"So, Amelia, you've already had a run in with Vivian, huh?"

I nodded, somewhat embarrassed, and Gemma chuckled. We started out of the hallway together, trailing behind several other girls. "I didn't cross swords with Vivian until my second term. Spilt gravy all down the front of her uniform. Accident, of course." Gemma winked, "But to get on her bad side _your first week_? You must be quite the cheeky little troublemaker."

"Troublemaker?" I smiled, "Hardly."

"Why? What happened?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"C'mon, I won't judge. I've probably done ten million more stupid things than you have." Gemma clasped her hands together. "Please?"

I shook my head.

"There's really not much to tell. I was out on the lawn past curfew. That boy, Stewart, must have seen me or something. He told Vivian and Trevor and, well, they rather gave it to me."

Gemma frowned.

"Picking on a first-year before the term's even started. How low can you get? What did they do, hit you over the head with the handbook?"

"They did try confiscating something from me." I blushed, "I... tried getting it back."

I wasn't sure why I was telling Gemma all of this, but there was a certain relief in doing so.

"Wow," Gemma looked impressed, "Were you successful?"

"If you call getting shoved to the ground successful." I fiddled with my braid, "There was a boy who came out of nowhere. Clive Dove. He said something to Vivian that made her give it back."

"Clive Dove, huh?" Gemma had one of her lenses gripped between two fingers. She trace the top edge over and over as she walked.

"Yes, what do you know about him?"

"Now _there's_ a cheeky little troublemaker for you. Always has the patrol breathing right down his skinny neck. But he's asking for it, he is. Sneaking around, screaming in his room in the middle of the night, getting into fights, picking locks, breaking windows, hexing people with his dark powers."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Or so I've heard." Gemma added quickly, "There's all sorts of rumors about him. Hard to know how much of it is true."

" _Hexing_ people?"

"Okay, maybe I made that one up, but you can never-what?"

I had come to a stop in the middle of a hallway that looked totally unfamiliar. The girls we had been following had vanished. "Gemma, erm, where exactly are we?"

Gemma stopped and looked around in mild surprise.

"You know I haven't the faintest clue." she grinned sheepishly, " By the end of my first year I'd thought I had everything memorized, then I came back and phew-" she snapped her fingers, "All gone."

"Let's try going back the way we came."

As we retraced our steps, I tried to remember the tour Greta had given me and the other first-years yesterday, but it was all a muddled blur. Truthfully, I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to properly navigate the school. It seemed to be designed with the explicit purpose of bewildering its occupants. There was so many twists and turns, doors and hallways, long galleries and steep stairways, that one could explore for hours and always be treading upon new territory.

Each room and hall we passed through was full of curious details that made me want to linger and look on, as though I was in a museum, but with no glass cases or velvet ropes to restrict access. Stretched across one wall was a tapestry of a hunting party woven from the finest of threads. Up close I could see drops of blood flecking the flanks of the hounds and hoof prints stamped into the dark mud. In one alcove was a suit of armor with a red plume on the helmet and several noticeable dents, as if someone had only just been in a battle. An ornately handled sword hung by the suit's side. There were oriental carpets upon the floor, wood paneling twisting with grape vines and leaves, and statues of Grecian goddesses with cold marble expressions. The place was a hodge-podge of eras and styles blended into one confounding labyrinth. Silently watching over the maze were countless portraits of distinguished ladies and gentlemen, even a few children in stiff lace collars and old-fashioned breaches.

Yet despite all of these treasures, I couldn't help but notice an air of neglect about the place. The floors, ceilings, and even some of the windows, were weathered and plagued by cracks. A layer of dust lay dormant upon much of the decor. The light furnishings appeared to be remnants of some long-ago renovation. It seemed unusual for a school as prestigious as Dreycott.

I was thinking about all of this when Gemma and I turned another corner and passed under a wide arched doorway. The hum of countless conversations and the scent of warm bread instantly enveloped me. I blinked against the bright sunlight that spilled in through high windows, across long tables crowded with students and breakfast platters, and onto the floor like a river of gold. The dining hall looked positively cheerful bathed as it was in morning glow and my appetite triumphantly announced its return.

"We did it!" Gemma said, "We conquered the maze and a feast is laid in our honor! Ha-ha HA!" She bounced back and forth on her feet, her arms crossed, performing an improvised victory jig as several pupils sitting nearby shot her baffled looks. I started laughing, then caught sight of a patroller walking in our direction.

"Er, Gemma..."

Gemma grabbed my arm and pulled me into the breakfast line. The two of us snuck a look over at the patroller. He appeared oblivious as he walked past the line, scratching his large nose. We looked back at each other and giggled.

The line steadily pushed forward until we reached a long counter behind which stood several cooks waiting to serve a number of scrumptious looking breakfast dishes. We both decided on toast and steaming bowls of porridge before settling down in a quiet corner awash in sunlight.

"So, what's your schedule look like?" Gemma asked me, as she crunched her toast.

"Hmm." I swallowed, "I have history at nine, geography at ten, and maths at eleven."

"I've got Latin." Gemma made a face, "Then chemistry. Then I have to go to the library." Her face scrunched up as she absently spread jam around her toast creating translucent raspberry swirls.

I nibbled on the edge of my spoon, thinking

"I could go with you if you wanted." I said, "We can meet back here for lunch and then go to the library together. I haven't gotten to see it yet." I paused, then added, "That is, if you wouldn't mind."

The sour folds and furrows vanished from Gemma's face as her eyes widened.

"Wouldn't mind? You'd really do that? I mean you don't have to. I'm sure you have better things to do then watch me write the school's anthem a thousand times over. I hope you never have to hear it sung. It sounds like a funeral dirge written by a monkey."

"No, it's okay. Beside, no one should have to face Vivian alone."

"Heh. Can't argue with you there."

I couldn't help but wonder if Gemma was as lonely as I was. Did she have any other friends? I could see no reason why she wouldn't. But no one else had given her so much as a second glance when Vivian had dismissed us earlier. It seemed more than a little odd.

Gemma and I finished our breakfasts then joined the steady stream of pupils heading to the second floor of the main building, where most of the classrooms were located. I spent the rest of the morning getting settled in my various classes, meeting my new teachers and gaining an overview of what I would be learning throughout the rest of the term.

The history teacher, Mrs. Sprink was a tiny older woman with a fiery penchant for military history. She promised that by the time she was through with us we would have a comprehensive knowledge of every major battle our country had ever fought, down to the details of the soldiers' uniforms.

Geography was taught by Mr. Carter, a large man with a larger voice and kind, sleepy eyes who like to wander off down rabbit trails, mainly involving the antics of his two granddaughters. Mr. Carter would inevitably realize how far from the lesson he had strayed and then try to connect his anecdote with whatever we were currently learning about. Unfortunately, it was a bit of a stretch to relate the story of his granddaughters looking for tadpoles in a stream with information regarding the seven longest rivers in the world.

Finally, there was my maths teacher, Mr. Ebengrew. He was rather ordinary in every respect except for the fact that he kept a ruler with him at all times and would smack it quite loudly on his desk to emphasize certain points in his lectures. In his more passionate moments one could expect a smack every five seconds or so.

After maths, I returned to the dining hall. I located Gemma and we ate in the same spot as before. When we were finished, we gathered our things and headed in the direction of the library, Gemma in the lead.

"So how do you like it at Dreycott?" I asked Gemma as we climbed a set of stairs. My relief over classes being done for the day and a delicious lunch had both made me feel cheerful and rather more talkative than usual.

Gemma shrugged.

"Well enough, I suppose. Not that I have much of choice one way or the other. My dad has a decent job at a bank here in London, see, but mum's kind of given up on him ever getting promoted. So she sent me here, hoping I'd hit it off with some aristocrat's son and marry up. Same with you?"

"Er...well, no. No, actually. My granddad came here as a boy. He told me so many stories about the place, that it's been sort of my dream to attend Dreycott."

"Glad you weren't forced like me. Well, I wasn't _really_ forced. I would never have agreed to come to Dreycott if it wasn't for one thing."

"What's that?"

Gemma grinned widely, her eyes shining behind her glasses.

"Acting, my dear! One day I plan to run away and join a traveling theatre troupe. Until then, Dreycott's got an amazing theatre department. The head teacher is Antony Xander!"

"Antony Xander? I think I've heard of him somewhere." I thought back to last night. Clive had mentioned someone rifling through Professor Xander's desk. Gemma looked slightly indignant.

"I should say so! He was only London's foremost actor...several decades back." she coughed, "The production he's putting on this year is going to be absolutely stunning. I'm going to try auditioning for the lead part. I got a pretty small role in last year's play, but I could tell Mr. Xander was impressed. He told me that-" Gemma stopped suddenly, her face crumpling in pain. She gripped her forehead, swaying slightly.

"Gemma? Are you okay?"

Gemma blinked and her roving eyes focused in on me.

"Yes, sorry. I get nasty headaches sometimes." She frowned, "Now, which way was it...?"

She turned back the way we had just come. "I think I'm a bit turned around again. It's this way."

I silently followed after Gemma, baffled by her change of directions. I was also concerned about her pain, but she seemed alright now. She headed down the stairs we had only just climbed, turned several sharp corners, and then stopped at a door set into the side of a short windowless passage.

"I think we can take a shortcut through here."

Gemma opened the door and stepped through. I followed behind her, into a room unlike any I had yet seen at Dreycott. The room was only half the size of the dining hall, but was capped by a lofty domed ceiling set with a small, round skylight that I had to crane my neck to fully view. This, combined with the lack of any furniture, made the place seem larger than it truly was. Portraits lined the walls at perfectly spaced intervals, broken only by the door we had entered through and another pair, wide and stately, made of walnut and tightly shut.

One portrait close to me caught my eye. It was an oil painting of a grim man with dark hair and a craggy countenance. The background was a deep black, but the light upon the man's face seemed unusually harsh as if the beam of a powerful torch had suddenly shone upon him, alighting starkly upon his pale cheek bones and scarlet necktie. The name on the gilt frame read "Sidney Dreycott" and so I assumed he was related to the school in some fashion.

"Gemma, what-" I paused. Gemma was standing in the middle of the room, as if in some sort of daze. She was muttering something under her breath. I started towards her.

"Gemma?"

She looked up.

"I don't think we're supposed to be here." she said in a low voice.

"What?" I looked around the room again and back up at the dome, "Wait..." My eyes widened as a startling thought hit me, "Is this the rotunda?"

Before Gemma could reply, footsteps echoed from beyond the room, past the double doors opposite us.

"We should go." Gemma said. We hurried over to the door we had just come through. However, right as Gemma grasped the handle, the footsteps stopped. We both turned to see one of the double doors sweep open, allowing two patrollers to enter from another hallway beyond. I didn't recognize one, a tall girl, but the other was a familiar face: Trevor.

"What are you two doing here?" Trevor asked immediately, his voice cracking slightly in suprise. He strode towards us, "Don't you know this area is out-of-bounds for pupils? Didn't you see the sign?"

"We came through a different door," Gemma said quickly, "We didn't know."

"We were just leaving," I added.

"Enough. If I'm not mistaken, Mudget, you're supposed to be in the library. And _you_." Trevor turned to me, "You're that first-year who was giving Vivian trouble last night. Should've known you'd be a repeat offender. You two, follow me."

Trevor and the other patroller turned and headed back for the hallway without a second glance.

"Should we make a run for it?" Gemma whispered.

"No, I think that'll just make things worse."

Gemma sighed, but she trudged behind me as I followed after the two patrollers.

Again we were thrown into the twisty maze of hallways and passages, although, fortunately, Trevor seemed to know exactly where he was headed. We eventually stopped in front of a door with a nameplate that read: "Mary Goodson, Head of Girls' Boarding". I relaxed, the tension clenching my muscles easing up. I had met Mrs. Goodson on a previous occasion, when my grandfather and I had gone to visit Dreycott last fall before I applied. She had been a warm and pleasant woman who had greeted my grandad and I like old friends. I felt certain she would be able to sort this whole mess out.

The door was slightly ajar and beyond it lay a small antechamber, what looked to be a waiting room of sorts, with two couches and a low table between stacked with magazines. Beyond the antechamber was another door, closed, which led to Mrs. Goodson's actual office.

Trevor pushed the door open and ushered us inside.

"Wait here." he said. He and the other patroller knocked on the door leading into the office and then, after a brief pause, went in.

Gemma sat down immediately. She plucked a fashion magazine off the table and started flipping through it. She threw it down just as quickly.

"I'm really, really sorry, Amelia. This is all my fault. I thought I knew where I was going, but the truth is half the time I'm completely lost in this place and my headaches don't help anything. I just get so turned around sometimes." Gemma rubbed her forehead, "I'm completely daft, I know."

I sat down across from Gemma and tried giving her an encouraging look.

"It's alright. I'm sure Mrs. Goodson will understand. And you're _not_ daft."

Gemma looked unconvinced. She was about to say something when the door opened and Trevor stepped out.

"Alright, you two. In here."

We walked past Trevor and into the office. It was small and cozily cluttered with floral print curtains hung over the windows and old, sagging armchairs facing a desk. Atop the desk were numerous paper stacks, some so lopsided they threatened to crash to the floor in a flurry of forms and files. Sitting behind the stacks was Mrs. Goodson, who was speaking to the other patroller in a low voice. As we neared, she finished and the patroller sauntered past us, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. She and Trevor exited the office leaving us alone with the head of boarding. She was just as I remembered, a short pear-shaped woman in a pale blue suit, her blond hair tucked behind her ears.

"Hello, girls. Have a seat."

We sat down in the armchairs.

"Gemma Mudget and...?" her voice trailed away as she turned to me.

"Amelia Ruth, ma'am." I smiled up at Mrs. Goodson, but she didn't smile back.

"Yes, that's right. Forgive me."

Goodson sat up straighter in her chair and folded her chubby hands in front of her. Up close, I could see she had dark circles ringing her eyes. She was wearing a certain expression I couldn't place, one that looked neither warm nor pleasant.

"Well, let's get straight to the point. Trevor and Lily told me you two were in a restricted area just now. The rotunda. And I believe Vivian told you that area was out of bounds only this morning." Mrs. Goodson's voice was crisp, cold even.

"She did." I said, as evenly as I could, "Gemma and I were looking for the library and we got lost. We didn't mean to end up in the rotunda."

"I see. However, Trevor also told me that you were involved in some sort of incident last night?"

I felt heat prickle on my cheeks.

"After the assembly, I went out to the lawn for some fresh air. I didn't realize how late it was getting."

"Yes, well, according to Trevor you were out past curfew and you resisted the punishment they issued to you. I'm not sure you're aware of this, but the patrol are allowed to take disciplinary measures if the situation demands it." Mrs. Goodson closed her eyes for a second, as if she were trying to remember something, "This includes verbal reprimands and warnings, revocation of certain privileges, or an escort to detention."

"I see, I'm sorry-"

"But one of them shoved her!" Gemma burst out. I shot her a startled look.

"One of them shoved you?"

My face grew hotter. I wasn't sure whether to be grateful or annoyed at Gemma.

"Yes. They took the present my grandad gave me, so I tried getting it back. I probably shouldn't have, but I was afraid I would never see it again. "

Mrs. Goodson's frown deepened, her brow creasing in concern. She opened her mouth to say something, then her eyes flicked toward the door, and her lips slowly pressed together.

"I'm sure it was an accident." she said after a moment, "I know it can be hard for new students to understand the way our school is run. We are a unique institution. Pupils who show good discipline and academic integrity have a chance to join the Patrol and hold many important responsibilities. It is Professor Rosen's desire that the Patrol run much of the day to day activities here at Dreycott. They are more than just prefects, they are the heart of what this school stands for. You must respect them, even if it means giving some things up."

It was a lifeless speech. Mrs. Goodson looked as if she had a bad taste her in mouth. She began to shuffle her paperwork, "Now, if that is all-"

"Wait. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, Mrs. Goodson, but there's something else." Now it was Gemma's turn to look at me as if I'd gone mad, but I couldn't stop now. "Another pupil, a boy. A patroller gave him a black eye." There was a hint of desperation in my voice. I couldn't believe Mrs. Goodson was giving the Patrol the benefit of the doubt. She didn't look like she wanted to. Surely she had to have noticed what bullies they could be.

"Who would this be?"

"Clive Dove his is name, ma'am."

Mrs. Goodson's expression become even more troubled. Her face blanched and she tapped her index finger sporadically on top of a paper.

"Clive Dove, you say?"

"Yes." Now I wasn't sure what to think.

"I'm afraid that's something you'd have to talk with the headmistress about. But since she's quite busy it would be best to drop the matter entirely." Mrs. Goodson leaned in closer, "Dove is somewhat of a trouble-maker. He picks fights whenever possible, obeys the rules only when it suits him, and generally causes disruption. I would keep your distance from him, Miss Ruth."

"...Yes, Mrs. Goodson." What else could I say?

"Now, you girls are free to go. I can see that you did not mean to cause any real trouble. Just remember to stay clear of the rotunda next time." Her face finally softened and she smiled, but the look in her eyes remained unchanged.

Gemma had been staring at her feet the last few minutes. Now she looked up at Mrs. Goodson.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Goodson, but exactly why is the area restricted? Vivian managed to leave out that little detail."

I turned to Gemma, impressed again by her audacity. I was wondering the same thing, but had not possessed the nerve to ask the question aloud.

"That area." Mrs. Goodson began, her eyes not meeting our own, "Has extensive floor damage. It is currently being renovated. Last year we had several pupils receive injuries because of said damage."

Mrs. Goodson looked ready to return to her papers. Gemma and I stood.

"Have a pleasant day, girls."

"Thank you, Mrs. Goodson."

We left the office and the antechamber. I remained silent, my mind burning.

Clive a delinquent? And the way Mrs. Goodson had brushed aside the Patrol's actions. Defended them. It was all wrong. So wrong. And the rotunda...

"It didn't look as if the rotunda was being renovated." I said as Gemma and I made our way back down the hallway.

"It didn't look like there was any damage either. No more than any other part of the school." she replied, "And what were Trevor and Lily doing there anyway? It doesn't add up."

I tried sorting through it all in my head, but none of it made sense. Not the rotunda. Not the patrol, the amount of power they were given, or the blind eye everyone turned to them. And that look in Mrs. Goodson's own eyes. I realized now it had been fear.

I felt a sinking inside of me, as if all the stories my granddad had told me were dropping off into a deep pool. It appeared that the Dreycott my granddad knew was gone. True, there were still bits and pieces that remained bright. Gemma, my interesting classes, the peaceful lawn, the endless hallways ripe for exploring. But overshadowing all of this was the Patrol. Even Mrs. Goodson seemed afraid of them. I wanted answers. And I could think of only one person who might be able to give them to me: the ghost, the troublemaker, the boy with the black eye and sharp smile. I needed to find the one person I knew who had looked the Patrol in the eye and come out on his feet.

I did owe him a game of chess, after all.


	3. Chapter Three

**The Story So Far...**

 _On her second day at Dreycott, Amelia meets and befriends fellow pupil, Gemma Mudget. Accompanying Gemma to detention, the two girls wind up in a restricted area of the school and are taken to the office of the Head of Girls' Boarding, Mrs. Goodson. Although the girls are absolved from any wrongdoing, Amelia is disturbed by the deference shown to the Patrol and Mrs. Goodson's warning to stay away from Clive. She resolves to seek answers to the many questions she has..._

 **Chapter Three**

Compared to my rather tumultuous first two days at Dreycott, the weeks that followed were uneventful. I was able to settle into a steady routine of attending class, studying, and familiarizing myself with my surroundings (a task that continued to prove challenging). These activities kept my mind engaged and, early in life, I had learned that as long as this was so I could be content. And so I was. Unfortunately, whenever I began to truly enjoy my time at the school, whenever I entertained the idea of favorably comparing Dreycott to home, the Patrol managed to step in and trample my hopes beneath their constant nit-picking and bullying. It appeared there could be no true peace at Dreycott when the Patrol was afoot and they were always afoot.

Initially, I tried telling myself that perhaps Vivian, Trevor, and their close cohorts were the exceptions to the rule, that the majority of the Patrol was maybe somewhat decent. But the longer I was at Dreycott the more I realized that each and every one of them was just as infuriating and insufferable as the last.

In part, this was because the Patrol enjoyed status far above the other pupils. They were allowed to be out of bed long after the rest of us were shut away, they could be excused from any homework they pleased if they thought it might interfere with patrol duties, and they would often retreat to their own private lounge which I was told was bigger than both the boys' and girls' common rooms combined. The Patrol would flout these privileges like a cat dumping fresh caught mice before the feet of its master. To make matters worse, the teachers did little to exercise their own authority over the group. With few exceptions, they doted upon the Patrol, complimenting their work out loud and often, while readily complying with any and all of the group's demands. In many cases, it appeared they were only doing so to avoid being reported to Professor Rosen, a tender seedling of a threat that the Patrol enjoyed nurturing.

As for me, I wished to be able to simply ignore the Patrol and learn in peace, but the whole of the school seemed to be centered around the Patrol, of obeying the Patrol, of watching the Patrol as an example. Really, the whole business irritated and baffled me to the extreme. I wanted to speak up, to somehow show I stood against them, but my abhorrence of even touching a toe near the center of attention overpowered any effort I might have shown. So I obeyed the Patrol, but without comment, without a word. This was my sole rebellion.

I wrote to my family every week, but I never mentioned the problems I saw at the school. The last thing I wanted was to somehow disappoint my grandad. He had been so excited to finally see me off attending his alma mater. How could I explain to him that the school was run by a matching set of snobs, that the teachers and staff were overly compliant, or that the building and grounds were falling into disrepair? And then, beneath all of this, I had a vague apprehension, a fear that danced at the edges of my mind. I couldn't explain it, but I knew it had to do with the accidents and the rotunda.

I didn't know how to tell my grandad any of this. I didn't see what good it would do. I was here now and I wanted to finished up the year, at the very least. So instead, I chose to focus on the few happy aspects of Dreycott, the bright bits that diminished the shadow cast by the school and its silver-sashed wardens.

One of these was Gemma. After our trip to Mrs. Goodson's office, I made good on my promise and accompanied her to the library. Afterwards, we sat and conversed for a long time. True, Gemma mostly talked and I mostly listened, but this arrangement seemed to suit the both of us just fine. Hearing all about Gemma's over-bearing mother and her acting debut at the age of five (she played a sheep) made me forget the troubled questions I was stewing over, if only briefly. When breakfast arrived the next day, Gemma found me and we picked up right where we left off.

When I wasn't with Gemma or in classes, I spent much of my time in the library, which became my sanctuary of sorts. Even though the Patrol's reach extended even here (several of them served as assistant librarians), not even they could transgress the sacred law of all libraries: silence.

Encompassing two floors, the library's spacious ceiling allowed the shelves to climb as high as trees. Like the rest of the school, the place was a maze, a forest, but one I didn't mind losing myself in. I would follow rows of worn leather spines until I found a gilt-lettered title that piqued my interest or sit and study at the chess set, tucked into a lonely corner and ill-used by other students. I would play a match whenever I found someone willing.

My secret hope was that Clive would show up for the game I owed him, but although my curiosity about him had only grown, I rarely ever saw him, only catching glimpses of him here or there, in a hallway or at a far table during lunch. I was beginning to think he had forgotten all about me until one dreary day in October, near the middle of term.

That afternoon I was in the library at the chess set, remembering the very last game I had played with my grandad before leaving for Dreycott. My grandfather was one of the few people back home whom I still could not best and this game had been no different. While at first it appeared I had the upper-hand, my granddad had shifted the game in his favor in a series of unexpected and brilliant moves. I was replaying this game on the board now, trying to puzzle out where I had gone wrong with the aid of a chess guide I'd received a few birthdays ago. My grandfather would explain his moves to me, but I liked to replay the scenarios on the board myself, moving the pieces about as if I was both players. I wanted to keep my skills sharp for when the winter break arrived and I would be going home.

The library quietly bustled around me as I slid pieces across the board, enveloped in the soft sounds of pupils shifting in their seats, flipping pages, and scribbling notes. The library's sudden popularity was likely on account of the weather, which had been gray and sour of late, accompanied by a perpetual smoggy drizzle that left the lawn looking like a soggy paper sack. It was sprinkling now, outside the window next to me, but I was so focused on the game that the drops were only a smudge of fuzzy gray in the corner of my eye. I nudged a white bishop forward and something snagged at my eye's other corner, a flicker of movement accompanied by a familiar face. I turned just in time to see Clive disappear around the far corner of a nearby bookshelf. His shoes echoed across the tiled floor and then he was coming back around the other side, scanning the shelf up and down, running his hand along a row of spines.

Hidden in its corner, the table I was at hunched behind two heavy reading chairs that partially obscured my view of the bookshelf. I shifted in my seat and craned my neck a bit to the right, enabling me to observe Clive without being seen myself.

He was at the far end of the bookshelf again. Bending down, he slid a volume out from one of the lower shelves, one with a dull red cover, and stood with it in his hands, staring at it. As quietly as I could I turned around in my chair and leaned forward so that my knees were pressing against the slats, my hands bracing the top. Against my weight, the chair tipped slightly as I strained my neck, trying to make out the title. I shifted my knee and the chair creaked. Clive's shoulders stiffened, then he turned to look in my direction. I instinctively ducked down, losing my grip on the leaning chair. For just a second, I balanced on the chair and the chair balanced on its wobbling back legs, then we both toppled forwards. Twisting, I grabbed at the table behind me, but instead snatched the edge of the chess board, yanking it and all its pieces down with me as I hit the floor in a tangle of bent arms, chair legs, and pawns.

I lay panting, my heart thumping fast and thick in my ears, staring in shock at the dust motes gathered on the tiles centimeters from my nose.

"Well, this looks rather familiar." The voice was friendly, with just a dash of mock smugness, "Are you alright?"

Groaning, I lifted my head and grasped the hand being held out to me. As I was pulled me to my feet, Clive's amused expression slid into view.

For the first time, up close and under good lighting, I noticed how unkempt he looked. His tie was wrinkled and crooked. His gray jacket was one size too large for him and his equally oversized pockets were bulging with rolled-up newspapers, pencils, a magnifying glass, and a small blue notebook with a battered cover. From the look of his hair you would think he had been recently strolling through a hurricane, such was its unruliness and opposition to gravity. At least his black eye had almost entirely faded, but I found that this made little difference. Just below his eyes were shadows that spoke of restless nights. He was such a weary, patchy looking boy that I couldn't believe he was the same one who had stood up so bravely to the Dreycott Patrol.

"Er," I couldn't seem to find my breath, "Thanks. I'm fine."

I wished I could have snapped out a quick comeback to match Clive's own, but wittiness came as naturally to me as pole-vaulting. Instead, I rubbed my arms and legs, trying to ensure they weren't in any way damaged.

"Game got a little too exciting for you?"

I looked up again, my face flushing, feeling a pinch of irritation at the small smile Clive was trying to suppress. Where was Gemma and her cheek when I needed it?

"No." I glanced down. Clive was holding the red book at his side. The title read: _Classic Cryptology_. "I was just distracted. By some things."

Before he could reply, I bent down, heat still prickling my cheeks, and began gathering the scattered chess pieces. Clive righted my chair and set the chess board on the table. I heaped the pieces on top, careful to ensure none rolled off. As I did so, I inwardly scrambled through my collection of small-talk bits and ice-breaker bobs, looking for something interesting to say. All I could think of was the weather. There is nothing so terribly stupid as mentioning the weather when you are close enough to a window that the state of the outdoors is clear for all to see, but that was what I was prepared to do. Thankfully, Clive saved me the trouble.

"So, how have your classes been going?" he asked, as I began to line the pieces in proper formation.

"Oh! Er, very well, thank you." I dipped into a pause, then pushed myself to keep going, "I especially like geography. Which is funny. I've never had much of an interest before, but Mr. Carter is so...so..."

"Long-winded?" Clive offered.

"Yes! I mean no. Well, alright, he's a little, but in the best possible way. Yesterday he took up half of class telling us about his granddaughter's seventh birthday party. She had it at a farm because she loves ponies and in this one picture he showed us a pony was eating his toupee, if you can believe it. "

I stopped. Was I actually babbling? I never babbled. Certainly not about ponies. This was a surprising development, but not entirely useless. If I could get Clive talking, about anything really, maybe I could steer the conversation in the direction of answers. At any rate, my little tumble was on endless loop in my mind. Chattering seemed to help block it out.

"What about you? Any favorite teachers?"

"Shhh! _Too much noise_!"

A patroller had whipped her head around the corner of the bookshelf. She put a finger to lips that were curled in a murderous scowl. Clive nodded at the patroller with practiced politeness, then turned back to me, rolling his eyes.

"Any teacher who doesn't grovel before the patrol," he said in a low voice, "is fine by me."

"That reminds me. There's something I've been meaning to ask you." The words slipped out before I could stop them. Clive's brow furrowed with a question, but he remained silent. "What I meant to say-" I hesitated, sifting through words. "I still owe you that chess game. And now I guess I doubly owe it to you. But if you're busy, studying, that is..."

Clive rubbed his chin.

"Actually," he began, "I could use a break."

Setting his book on the table top, Clive sat down in the chair opposite my own. He gave me that sharp smile. It was the same one he'd given Vivian my first night at Dreycott. Self-assured, but wary and wily as a hound-cornered fox. I didn't like having it directed at me. If my strategy was sound I would have the pleasure of watching it fade in defeat. But, no, I needed to focus on my bigger concern.

"Ready when you are."

"Right."

I took my seat, studying the board. I was white, meaning the first move was mine, but I wasn't thinking about that. This was my chance to ask Clive about the Patrol, about Dreycott, and the shadow, something I didn't even know how to describe, that was hanging over it. It was only a hunch, but I was sure he knew something, he was part of it all somehow. But how to ask? I wasn't even sure he would be willing to tell me anything. Why would he? Unless... _unless_... I focused on my pieces, casting their own pale finger-like shadows over the alternating squares. And then I knew. I looked up at Clive.

"How about...how about we make the game a little more interesting?"

Clive folded his arms.

"How so?"

I swallowed.

"For each piece you capture you can ask me any question you like. And for each piece I capture, I can ask you."

"Any question? No holds barred?"

"No. And you have to answer honestly, of course."

"Alright."

I blinked. That had been easy enough.

"Alright." I repeated, "Here we go." I turned my attention back to the board and made the first move, sliding a pawn to e4, my usual starting point. This was an advantageous position for several reasons, not the least of which was I had a good chance of controlling the center. Clive's turn. He mirrored my move, sliding his own pawn to e5. Our pieces stood directly opposite from each other. Now the game had truly begun.

On my third move, I made the first capture, sacrificing my knight for a pawn. This was generally not a good trade, but, in this case, my move could lead to a chance to attack the enemy king.

"Let's see." I removed Clive's piece and rolled it between my fingers. Start small, I told myself, save the big questions for the end.

"What do you do in your spare time, Clive?"

My opponent smirked.

"Sorry, can't answer that. I don't have any spare time."

"Well, if you did."

Clive tilted his head back, gazing at the high ceiling. Outside the drizzle slipped into a downpour, hurling drops against the glass.

"I think I'd write." he finally said.

"About what?"

"No, no. Sorry. One question at a time. And it's my turn, I believe."

Clive captured my knight with a pawn and plucked it from the board. He studied it closely, than looked up. Studied me closely.

"Do you like puzzles?"

The question caught me off-guard. Puzzles? Like _Classic Cryptology_? Or did he mean mysteries of any kind? I wasn't sure, so I decided to be clever. Ish.

"Only if I can solve them."

Now I realized how stupid it sounded. Clive only nodded, as if I had confirmed a suspicion.

"Your move."

I moved my queen out and the game had its first check. Clive responded by sliding his king a space forward. I captured another of his pawns with my queen.

"What do you like to write about?" I wasn't letting him off the hook with that one.

"Interesting things I see. Questions I have. Ideas." he shrugged, "It's something everyone should do."

Clive had only one move available to him. He nudged his king a space to the right. I moved out a bishop. Clive freed up his defenses by moving another pawn to the middle of the board. His queen and bishop were now free to move, but his pawn was mine. Check.

"Where are you from? I don't think you ever told me."

"Right here in London. I've lived here all my life."

Clive moved his king, releasing it from check. I wasn't letting him slip away that easily. I moved out my right-most pawn. He slid forward another of his own pawns to block me. No matter. I thrust my bishop into his ranks, taking out another pawn.

Time to get serious.

"What do you know about the accidents?"

Clive was frowning at the board, tapping the edge of the table. He looked up.

"The accidents?"

I sighed.

"During her speech, Professor Rosen mentioned some sort of accidents occurring last term in the rotunda. What do you know about them?"

"I was told several pupils were injured. Broke through some decaying floorboards or something like that."

His expression was unreadable. I opened my mouth to ask another question, then I thought better of it.

"Strange." I said nonchalantly, "A school of Dreycott's standing having such structural damage."

"It's an old school. I've been told they're working on renovations."

"Sounds like you've been told a lot of things."

"As have you, I'm sure."

We eyed each other for a moment, trying to read the other's thoughts. Finally, I spoke.

"I have been told some things. But I've also seen the rotunda for myself."

"And...?"

I shook my head.

"There were no signs of any sort of renovation going on. No equipment. No materials."

"Perhaps they've had a late start of it."

"Perhaps. But I didn't see any damage either. The floor looked in good condition. Gemma and I walked on it. In fact, Trevor walked on it. And you know how he's built. If anyone would break through the floor, it would be him." I thought for a moment, "But he didn't even seem concerned about crossing the floor. Surely _the_ _Patrol_ would know about the damage."

"That is a little odd. Maybe they'd already finished renovations, then?" Clive's eyes were hooded, he looked almost bored. But I knew he must be playing devil's advocate. Trying to push me toward some conclusion.

"No. Mrs. Goodson told Gemma and I that they were _currently_ working on renovations. Ongoing. Besides, if they were finished, wouldn't they open the rotunda and those other hallways back up again?"

"So, you're saying that there is no renovations going on because there's no need? The floor is perfectly safe? Always has been?"

"Yes, exactly."

"Then, what? Mrs. Goodson was lying?"

"Maybe she didn't know." I said quietly, "Or else she was trying to cover something up...what really happened to those students. "

I looked to Clive, but he had turned back to the board. He used a bishop to take out my own. Excellent. He had fallen for the trap I'd laid. Now I would be able to break through his lines.

"I suppose it's only fair I ask you now. Where are you from?"

Completely changing the subject. Not suspicious at all. Oh well, I still had the upper hand in the game.

"Luxenbelle." I replied.

"Never been. Do you like it there?"

Clive was breaking the rule, but I'd humor him.

"Yes, I do. It's...quiet there. We live in this old ugly house the color of a lilac. Me, my dad, my mother, and grandad, that is. Or I did. Now I'm here."

An ache bloomed in my chest. Home. Was it raining in Luxenbelle? Grandad always put the chess set in the kitchen on wet days. We would all gather there, even Pangur the cat, making it warm and cozily cramped. I would play a game or two with my grandad, buried in an old afghan that smelled like newspapers. If he was home, Dad would work on the wooden birdhouse that had been his pet project for the last thirty years. Mum heaped fresh laundry across the counter so we could help her sort through socks.

"Amelia?"

I looked up.

"Sorry." I muttered. Deep breath. I noticed Clive had on a peculiar expression. Then he rubbed his brow and it was gone.

Turning back to the board, I moved my queen to f5, toward Clive's king. He had only one legal move. He slid his king away from my encroaching piece. I moved out another pawn, as did Clive, then placed my queen at f7. Clive moved his own queen beside it in response. It was time. I moved a pawn to g5, taking out another of Clive's and checking his king. My carefully positioned queen would keep him from retreat.

"Why _does_ Rosen give the Patrol so much power?" This was a nagging question of mine, but not the one I wanted answered most. That one I would save for last.

Clive shrugged.

"You're guess is as good as mine, I suppose."

"Tell me about your guess."

Clive settled back in his chair, folding his arms on the table top.

"Alright. It's quite simple really."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Look around you, Amelia. Even if the rotunda's floor isn't rotten enough to break someone's leg, the place is in awful condition. And the number of pupils? A school this size could hold three times as many people."

"You're right." I nodded, "The girls' dormitories are barely half full."

"The truth is, Dreycott's best days are behind it. It has its prestige and that's it. Too fusty for its own good. Rosen knows this. She knows she needs to get the coffers jingling somehow. So what does she do?"

Clive didn't wait for me to give an answer.

"She takes the children of the school's benefactors, the alumni, the blue-bloods and she hands them the keys to the school. Gives them whatever they want."

"You think she's just trying to butter the parents up?"

"Like dry toast."

As he spoke, Clive moved his queen and captured my checking pawn.

"What do you say to that?"

I bit my lip.

"I don't know. I guess your theory sounds reasonable." I couldn't tell if Clive was keeping something back from me or not. I looked to him, but he was silent, staring forlornly at the board. I picked up my rook. The final blow was mine to deliver. I set it down on h5, capturing another of Clive's pawns in the process.

"Checkmate."

Clive flicked his king over and watched the piece roll back and forth across the board.

Then he looked up at me with admiration in his gaze. "And I thought I knew a thing or two about chess. Just how long have you been playing?"

I blushed, despite myself. I didn't have many talents, but chess was something I was passionate about, even if I did consider it to be chiefly my grandfather's game. I was merely his acolyte.

"Thank you. My granddad taught me when I was six, so I've had plenty of time to practice."

"Hmm."

Clive closed his eyes and braced himself against the edge of the table, "I'm ready now. Do your worst."

For a moment I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but then I remembered. My final question.

"Okay," I took in another deep breath as I thought of how to frame it, "I've noticed you don't have the best reputation here, at Dreycott I mean, and I was wondering why that is."

Clive opened his eyes and I could see just a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

"Well, that's a rather nice way of putting it." He made a sound that was somewhere between a helpless laugh and a sigh, "But you're right. The Patrol wants my head. Rosen would expel me if her hands weren't tied. I've broken more rules than I can count."

Was there just a hint of pride in his voice? I knew from experience just how easy it was to accidently overstep Dreycott's myriad of ordinances and regulations, but I had no doubt Clive was implying he broke the rules intentionally. But which rules? Or maybe asking _why_ was the more important question.

"But why?"

"Does there have to be a reason? Perhaps I'm just your average miscreant who thinks he can get away with anything."

"I don't believe that. You stood up to the Patrol for me. I haven't seen else anyone do that. You see how wrong this whole school is. It's run by bullies and falling to pieces and everyone is so afraid of...something. Not just the Patrol. Something else."

There was a long pause. When he finally spoke, Clive voice was low.

"Yes. There is something very wrong at Dreycott."

I leaned forward.

"What is it?" This was it. All of my other questions were only veins and vessels that lead to this one, the beating heart of the matter.

"I don't know."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding in.

"You...don't?"

"I have pieces. Fragments of a story. For nearly three years I've followed leads that went nowhere, searching and scraping for all the information I could about this school and its past."

"You think that whatever's wrong at Dreycott has to do with its past?"

"The past is always connected to the present. You, me, this school, London, everything we are now all has to do with what we were. And Dreycott has a long, _long_ past."

"You know you're being awfully vague."

"I am, but I can't say anymore right now." Clive looked around, "Not here. Too many thin walls, too many ears."

He took a pocket watch out of his jacket and examined it, then stood and pushed in his chair

"I'm sorry. I have to go. I have a friend who's waiting for me." He adjusted his tie, but only succeeded in making it more crooked, "That was a great game, by the way. Perhaps you can give me a lesson or two sometime."

"Erm, sure. See you later, I guess?"

"We'll see."

With that, Clive turned the corner of the bookshelf and vanished. As his footsteps echoed back to me, I settled into my chair, staring past the chess board at his empty seat. His answers had only managed to seed new questions in my mind. If anything, I was more confused than before.

My stomach grumbled quietly. Beyond the raindrops beading the window, the lawn was a pale, luminous blue. It was getting close to dinner time. I stood and stretched. The library was even quieter than before. Emptier.

As I turned back to the table to put the pieces in order, I realized that Clive had forgotten his book. It was still sitting there upon the edge. I picked it up and flipped through it. Symbols, charts, and blocks of text paraded by in a flurry of black and white. Near the middle of the book, a piece of paper slipped out from amongst the fluttering pages and drifted to the floor. I bent down and picked it up. It was folded twice, the way one folds a sheet of paper to fit it in an envelope. I unfolded it and quickly read through the rows of small, hasty handwriting.

As I neared the end my eyes widened. Refolding the note, I slipped it into my bag, and started for the door. From somewhere far beyond the library, a murmur of deep-seated thunder sent a shiver through the maze of shelves. And just for a moment, in the recesses of the lofty ceiling and in the lamps on the tables, the lights flickered.


	4. Chapter Four

**The Story So Far...**

 _Amelia plays a game of chess in the library with Clive and has an opportunity to ask him several questions about Dreycott and its mysteries. Although his answers prove less than satisfactory, Amelia discovers that he has left behind a potential clue: a library book with a note hidden inside. Nearing dinnertime, Amelia leaves the library behind as, outside, a storm builds..._

 **Chapter Four**

 _Long ago, at the edge of a small village, there sat a church with a crooked black steeple that pointed up at the clouds like a gnarled finger. The church was abandoned, save for a family of swallows who nested in the rafters. Their lives were blissful and undisturbed by the rest of the world. Then the cat arrived._

 _The cat had no name, no master, and no scruples. What he did possess were claws, six on each paw, and a long tail dipped with white that would twitch left whenever he walked. The massive paws, the dab of white, these were the only warnings a swallow would receive before it was itself swallowed by the gaping jaws of the cat. First a brother was taken, than a mother, an aunt, a cousin. The flock's numbers dwindled until those who remained were too afraid to even leave their nests._  
 _"Something must be done." said the wisest of the flock, "Let us seek out the sparrow with the cream throat who lives at the edge of the wood beyond the church. For everyone knows out of all the birds, he is cleverest. Perhaps he can bring our foe down to an early grave."_

 _This was deemed an excellent plan and so, the next day, a band of swallows made the jaunt from the church to the edge of the wood. When they found the sparrow, he told them they were right to seek his help. He had a scheme in mind that would keep them forever safe from the clutches of the cat._

 _Winging his way to his friend the crow, the sparrow borrowed the item he needed for his plan. Upon his return, he showed it to the swallows. It was a silver bell dangling from a snip of twine. As he held it, it jingled merrily, now swinging left, now right, like the pendulum of an ecstatic clock._

 _"I will tie this round the cat's neck and then he shall never be able to take you by surprise again."_

 _Each swallow agreed in turn that this was, indeed, a clever solution. When the cat settled in for his afternoon nap, the sparrow was quick to loop the bell about his neck. As evening approached, the cat awoke and left his shady spot in search of supper. A nearby swallow caught his eye, but as he pounced the bell let out a gleeful alarm that frightened the bird away. Not one to give in so easily, the cat rolled himself in a nearby mud puddle. The mud caked the inside of the bell, sticking to the clapper and halting its noisy swinging. Silent once more, he slunk back into the church and made the swallows wail with grief._

 _The band of swallows, smaller than ever, returned to the sparrow and asked for help once more._

 _"This time I have an even better idea." the sparrow replied. He had his friend, Lady Spider, weave him a net of fine, sturdy threads and waited for the cat to enter the church after his evening stroll. As the cat passed the threshold, the sparrow released the net. Down it drifted and in an instant the cat was tangled, all twenty-four of his claws thrashing this way and that._

 _"If you promise to leave the swallows alone and never return, I will gladly set you free. Otherwise, we will drag you down to the stream and let you drown."_

 _"Would you really trust the word of cat?" he sneered in reply and with a sudden jerk, his claws ripped through the net, freeing him. That night, the cat dined on three swallows._

 _The sparrow knew, then, he must take drastic action if he were to save the remnant of the flock. Back to the edge of the wood he flew to think on what should be done. On the way, he caught sight of a bush to the right of the road loaded with berries, blushing carmine and oozing juice sweet as cordial. The berries, he knew, were poison to all but the song birds who liked to greedily gulp them down. A new plan forming, the sparrow ate the berries all that day and the next, as many as he could, until his feathers were dyed scarlet, his bill was ruby, and the juices flowed sluggishly through his veins. He returned to the church and sat in wait. The cat soon appeared._

 _"Here I am, cat, and see, I have dyed myself with potent juice that will protect me from any attack of yours."_

 _The cat could not resist a challenge, especially not one issued from prey so plump and sticky-sweet._

 _"We'll soon see about that." he said and lunged. Clinging to his courage, the sparrow remained still, not resisting a moment the encroaching claws and the terrible teeth. The cat's jaws closed over his berry-stained throat. When the cat tasted the poison juice that soaked the bird's feathers, his blood, he reeled back in dread. But it was too late, the poison was swift. Cat and sparrow tumbled to the dust, blood and juice, feather and fur, commingling._

 _Witnessing the entire event, right then and there the swallows lifted their voice as one._

 _"Brave sparrow! Cleverest of birds! You've slain our foe, but gave your life in turn!"_

 _In his honor, they used the berries to dye their throats red and so they do to this very day._

I glanced up from the page. Gemma was slumped over her bowl of unfinished soup, her sagging head propped up by her arm. Her glasses were foggy from the tendrils of steam still rising from the broth, making it impossible for me to tell whether or not her eyes had slipped shut during the course of the story. Around us, the dining hall was all clatter and clang. Bright lights beamed down upon tables packed with jostling students and reflected off the darkened windows, masking the rain that was steadily descending. I only knew of it because of the sound, like a perpetual drumroll, that melded into the din.

"Did you catch all of that?"

Gemma straightened and yawned.

"I did. Now I want berries. Blackberries. Ooh, blackberry cobbler."

"But what do you think?"

Gemma slipped off her glasses and began to polish them on her sleeve.

"Sounds like Clive tried his hand at writing a bit of fiction and failed...miserably. It was shaping up to be a real heart-warmer until that gory ending." She paused, considering, "His descriptions of the berries were pretty good. He should think about writing for a food magazine."

"But this, at the very bottom."

I slid the creased paper across the table to Gemma, tapping at a single line that had been scrawled at the bottom of the page. The words matched the handwriting of the story, but were written in faint red ink.

"' _Within story, twelve scattered words reveal path to door. Begin at painting_.'" Gemma read aloud as she slipped on her glasses "Door...what door?"

"And which twelve words? What painting? There's no painting mentioned in the story."

"Vague. Very vague."

I sighed.

"Yes, vague does appear to be Clive's calling card."

"Ha. Vague. That word sounds funny now. Say it again. Vague. Vague."

I tugged on a strand of my hair. The pinch helped me to focus. I only wished Gemma could do the same.

"It has to be important. Suppose Clive meant for me to find it."

"And you're sure he wrote it?"

"It can't be a coincidence. Besides, he did tell me he liked to write."

Gemma picked up her spoon and took a long, loud sip from her bowl. When she was finished, she bent over the paper, squinting.

"Tell me again what he said to you?"

I thought back to my conversation in the library, to the thread of questions I had asked Clive, and the guarded answers he had given me in turn. It was more difficult than it should have been. I was tired and the continuous clamor around me was cutting in on my ability to think clearly. What I had really wanted to do was eat quickly so I could retreat to my room. I'd wanted to break Clive's story apart bit by bit, like one does with a bar of chocolate, and examine each individual word, looking for the answer to the red-inked instructions.

Before I could make my escape, however, Gemma had sat down, saw me slipping the paper in my bag, and knew instantly that something was up. It was one of her gifts. Once she caught a whiff of intrigue, a tantalizing glimpse of potential gossip, she would make like a hound until she had all the details laid neatly before her. I knew it would've been hopeless to try and keep everything from her, so I told her briefly about the game in the library before reading her the story I'd found.

"He told me that there's something wrong at Dreycott, very wrong." I finally said, "But he's not sure what it is exactly. Apparently, he's been investigating the matter for a while now."

"Investigating? What does he think he is, some kind of inspector?"

"Don't tell me you're not curious about what's going on around here."

Gemma snorted.

"I am. But I know well enough not to get inked into the Patrol's black book just because of it. And really, _they're_ what's wrong with Dreycott." Gemma looked around the crowded dining hall and then lowered her voice, "Get rid of the Patrol and everything'd be solved."

"I'm not so sure. What about the accidents? _Something's_ being covered up."

"I guess Mrs. Goodson did seem rather nervous, like she was hiding something. But what does any of that have to do with some bird story you found in a book Clive left behind?"

Her eyes were shining. A part of me was a bit annoyed by her barrage of questions, but another part was glad to have found someone as inquisitive as I was.

"I do think he left it behind intentionally." I thought back to one of the questions Clive had asked me during our game, "It's a puzzle of some sort."

"Oh, is that how a boy tells you he fancies you these days? Gives you puzzles to solve? And here I've been waiting for roses and bonbons." Gemma paused, then smiled slyly. "Clive _is_ pretty cute. Just needs to remember to iron his clothes every once in a while. And not get punched in the face so much."

I decided to ignore her implications.

"I got the feeling that he wanted to tell me more, but wasn't sure if he could trust me. Maybe giving me a puzzle is his way of testing me."

"Can _you_ trust _him_? Mrs. Goodson did tell you to keep your distance."

I hesitated.

"He stood up for me. He doesn't like the Patrol, that counts for something. He seems kind. I suppose I trust him." I felt I was speaking more to myself than Gemma, trying to convince myself. I wanted to trust Clive. I wanted to know I wasn't the only one searching for answers. Yet she had a point. Even given the chance to ask him any question I liked, I still knew very little about him. Apart from his answers and my own observations, I had only Gemma's rumors and Mrs. Goodson's warning to guide me. Neither painted him in a very flattering light.

Thunder rattled the windows.

"Hark. Zeus has given you a sign." Gemma winked, than yawned, "Are you finished yet? I've got a bin full of homework to do before bed. Seriously. I've taken to just dumping it in an actual rubbish bin. Ha, ha, okay maybe not."

I didn't reply. Outward noises and inward thoughts, a tempestuous swirl of questions and doubts, were battling for attention within my mind, making my temple throb.

"Amelia?"

Gemma was peering at me with concern from behind her glasses. I pushed away my half-drained bowl absently.

"Yes. I need to finish my map of Africa for geography."

Gemma stood and picked up her tray of dishes.

"What you really need is a map of Clive's head. Wait, no. Scratch that. Creepy."

"A map..." I looked down at the story one last time, then carefully refolded it and placed it in my bag.

We handed our trays over to a member of the kitchen staff and started for the hallway. We passed the Patrol table on the way, lively as usual with its twenty or so silver-sashed occupants. Vivian seemed to be the current center of attention, telling some animated story that set the others off laughing. Two more Patrollers on dinner duty stood on either side of the entrance to the hallway, looking longingly over at their table. They barely acknowledged us as we passed between them.

Once we were free of the dining hall, Gemma started in on her usual stream of after-dinner chatter, which was very similar to her dinner chatter, a vigorous blend of cheerful commentary and ranting that often segued into whatever gossip she had picked up over the course of the day. Even more so than other evenings, I was only half-listening. We navigated the hallways with practiced ease (the route from the dining hall to the dormitories and vice versa was one of the few I had memorized) and ascended the stairs to the dormitories.

A group of girls passed us on the way up, giving us a wide berth. Gemma seemed not to notice as she started in on some rumor she had heard about Mr. Ebengrew's mother being a countess who had cut him off from the family money, but the act was not lost on me. It gave me yet another question to ponder. Other pupils were perfectly cordial to me when I was by myself, but when I was with Gemma there seemed to be an invisible barrier that encircled us, warning others to avert their eyes, keep their distance, or else whisper into the ear of a friend as they cast us sideways glances. Gemma had a few theatre friends who would talk with her, but even they were reticent when other pupils were nearby. More than anything I found it irritating, as no one at Dreycott seemed quite as friendly and open as Gemma. I saw absolutely no reason why she should be so ignored and avoided. Because she appeared not to mind her treatment in the slightest, however, I had kept quiet on the matter. I did so again as I turned away from the receding group of girls and tried retuning into Gemma's words.

"...and so that's why he decided to become a teacher. Or so he says. Pfft, like anyone would actually buy that sorry lie."

As we cleared the last step, I glanced at a picture hanging on the wall near the entrance to the dormitories. I abruptly stopped, my eye caught by a particular detail that had meant nothing to me until now. A few steps closer and I knew I wasn't mistaken. The painting was of a quaint village nestled amongst rolling green hills, but it wasn't the village that interested me. Near the edge of a dark wood, casting a shadow over the cobblestone streets and houses, was a black church with a crooked steeple.

"Gemma," I breathed.

Gemma had already passed through the double doors that led into the dorms, but popped her head back out when she heard me.

"Huh?"

"Come here."

She came and stood beside me, squinting at the painting.

"I know. Even I could paint something better than this, it looks like-ohhh."

We looked at each other. Gemma raised her eyebrows.

"Begin at painting." she repeated.

I quickly opened my bag and took Clive's story out.

"'A church with a crooked black steeple that pointed up to the clouds like a gnarled finger." I read, "The description matches the painting exactly."

"Okay. Okay. This is good. We're figuring it out. We start at this painting and, then, er, somehow we have to get to a door, right?"

"Right. 'Within story, twelve scattered words reveal path to door.'"

Gemma sighed.

"Which words, though? There's hundreds to choose from."

"There has to be some sort of clue within the story."

"Hmm. Maybe it's like an allegory or something. Clive is a cunning devil like the sparrow, right? And the cat could be the Patrol. The swallows are the other pupils. The church is Dreycott. Eh?"

I fiddled with one of my braids.

"It's an interesting theory. But how does it help us find the twelve words?"

Gemma's eyes widened.

"Oh my goodness. What if Clive's going to try and poison the Patrol? What if he's warning us of his plot?"

"Gemma."

"Yes. It all makes sense. Next time they serve us berry cobbler, it will be laced with arsenic and petrol, but Clive will have sent everyone who's not Patrol a secret lett-"

"Gemma."

Gemma flashed me an apologetic grin.

"Sorry. Sorry. Just joking."

I was quiet for a moment, allowing my thoughts to simmer.

"If they mark the path to the door, then the words must add up to be directions of some kind."

"So the twelve words spell out some sort of message?" Gemma replied, "On how to get to the door? Like 'Turn right, then left, and huzzah you've arrived?"

With narrowed eyes, I scanned through the story once more.

"You know...I think you might be on to something. What if the twelve words are directional?"

"Directional? What do you mean?"

"Like left, right, up, and down." I carefully read the first paragraph of the story, "Look. The word 'up', in the description of the church. 'A crooked black steeple that pointed 'up'."

"Are there more?"

I kept reading until I spotted the word 'left' in the description of the cat's tail.

"Yes. Here's 'left'...long tail... would twitch left whenever he walked...then 'down'...'right'."

Gemma bent over the story.

"Hey, yeah. This could be it." She rooted around in her bag and pulled out a pencil. "Here."

I quickly marked each directional word until we had a list of twelve:

 _Up, Left, Down, Right, Left, Right, Left, Down, Up, Left, Right, Down, Right._

"So, the actual story is just a red herring. All that mattered were these twelve directions."

Gemma was practically bouncing up and down.

"C'mon, let's see where it leads."

I shot her a small smile.

"What about homework?"

"Ha, ha. Like you're not dying to find this stupid door."

"Okay, maybe." I glanced at the story, "The first one is up. Upstairs. Are there any other stairs on this hallway?"

"No. Wait, yes. There is."

I followed Gemma down the hallway and around the corner. At the end, to the left-hand side, was a flight of stairs.

"I don't think I've been up to the fourth floor before. Are we allowed up there?"

Gemma shrugged.

"It's nothing exciting, believe me. They mainly use it for storage. I think there were more dorms up there, once, back when the school was in its prime." She climbed the first few steps and looked back, "C'mon. No one will mind."

As we made our way up, I checked the story.

"Next is left."

Once we reached the top, we continued down the left-hand passage. Unlike the first three stories, the walls and floors here were mostly bare of any decor, allowing our footsteps to reverberate deeply. I marveled yet again at the size of Dreycott, at how much space it contained which seemed to serve no purpose. We passed door after closed door. I thought I heard a faint sound, a sort of scuffling, behind one, but by then Gemma was ahead of me, calling for me to read her the next direction.

We traipsed up and down stairs, through hallways, and around corners as the rain tumbled down behind black panes and thunder murmured of lightning, encountering few people along the way. At one point, a patroller stopped us and asked what we were doing, but Gemma resolved the issue by telling him we were trying to get a feel for the layout of the school. He looked a little suspicious, but let us pass. Finally, we came to the last word, "right", and turned into a corridor on the first-floor that led to a dead end.

"Is that it?" Gemma asked, looking around.

I scanned the list of directions again.

"I think so."

"Where's the door then?"

We stood facing a wall hung with a rather dreary portrait of an old woman in a stiff gown holding a dog in her lap.

"Maybe we did make a wrong turn somewhere." I was still running my eyes over the list of directions, trying to retrace the route we took.

"Or maybe the door's behind this painting. Help me take it down."

"Gemma, I don't think-"

Before I could finish, Gemma had grabbed a hold of the painting's frame. She tried tugging it off the wall, frowned, and then felt along the left edge.

"Hinges." she declared.

"What?"

Gemma dug her fingers under the right side of the painting's frame and pulled. With a laborious creak the painting swung away from the wall, attached by a rusted set of hinges.

Gemma beamed.

"What did I tell you?"

I stepped closer and examined what was clearly not a door, but a wooden panel of some sort.

There was a block of words carved into the panel in small delicate script. Beneath the words were a row of square tiles, each printed with a letter of the alphabet. I squinted at the writing above the tiles and read aloud:

 _"I am the only possession the dead may clasp_

 _I, whom the living can never fully grasp_

 _For as soon as there is but a single soft gasp_

 _Then do my powers begin surely to lapse."_

"A riddle? Ooh, I love riddles." Gemma frowned, " I'm just not very good at them."

I gazed at the panel.

"I wonder...why is this here?"

"I bet if we solve the riddle, a secret door will open! Golly, this night is turning out so much better than I planned. Thank you, Clive Dove."

"A door to where?"

"Let's focus on solving the riddle first." Gemma clasped her chin and began pacing in front of the panel. "Okay, the only possession the dead may clasp...what can a dead guy own?"

I folded my arms.

"Nothing. He's dead."

Gemma stopped and raised her index finger in triumph.

"Nothing! That must be it."

"But that doesn't really make sense with the second part. What kind of powers does 'nothing' have?"

"True. Nothing can't have powers because it's nothing, right? Whew, did that make sense what I just said?"

I nodded.

"What about a tombstone? A coffin? Clasp. My great-aunt Mildred was buried holding her favorite handbag. You could say she was _clasping_ it."

"It has to be more general than that. It says 'the dead', not your Aunt Mildred."

Gemma frowned and tapped her foot sporadically.

"I know that. I'm just thinking out loud. Wait!"

I looked at her intently.

"In ancient Greece, all you needed when you died was a coin to pay the ferryman so you could cross the river of dead." Gemma scrunched up her nose, "They'd stick it in your mouth. Like, why not put it in your hand? I'm sure Charon liked slobber all over his obolus, right?"

While there were times when I could follow along on Gemma's Greek mythology rants, a topic of great personal interest to her, on other occasions I had no idea what she was talking about. I'm sure she felt the same way whenever I tried to explain the Queen's Gambit or some other chess tactic to her. We had both learned the best practice when either of us started speaking gibberish was to simply change the subject, which I did now.

"The living can never fully grasp it." I said, "Grasp could mean understand. You can't understand whatever it is until you're dead."

"But if you're dead, you can't understand anything. You can't really own anything. Ugh."

"Let's focus on the second part." I suggested.

"Um, alright. A single soft gasp. Why would that cause the whatsits' power to lapse?"

"To lapse means to fail or to decline." I said slowly. I let out a small gasp.

Gemma grabbed my wrist.

"You got it?"

I sighed.

"No, I was just trying to figure out what a gasp can do."

"A gasp can't _do_ anything. It's just a sort of sound you make when you're surprised."

"Yes, it's a sound... Gemma, let's both be quiet for a moment."

Gemma opened her mouth to protest, then reconsidered, her mouth slightly agape. We both stood still, glancing around the hall, straining our ears. There was about an hour until curfew now and the hallways were mostly clear of students. I could hear the ticking of a clock from down the hall, the echo of a pair of shoes on steps, and the faint timpani of rain.

"It's so quiet." Gemma said after a moment.

"But not completely silent."

"Silent enough."

"But can someone really experience true silence? There's always some little sound. A scuffling, a wind, even your own breath and heartbeat."

"I've never thought about it that way, but yeah." Gemma's eyes widened, "The living can never fully grasp... Silence!"

"Only the dead." I agreed, "Introduce even the smallest of sounds in a space and the silence diminishes.

"Silence is all the dead possess." Gemma murmured, "Morbid. I like it."

"It's the answer."

I leaned forward and pressed the correct sequence of tiles, spelling out "silence". There was a sharp, metallic click and then the middle section of the wall popped slightly out of its frame. Gears ground and gnashed their teeth as the section began to slide to the left, revealing a black space beyond. When the section finally stopped, bringing the hidden gears to rest, its former place was now a gaping entrance. The light of the corridor illuminated narrow wooden steps that descended into the darkness until they suddenly vanished as if wiped from existence.

"Whoa." Gemma said, "The underworld awaits."

"It's too dark." I said, shuffling closer until I stood at the threshold. The air in the passage was stagnant and musty, like the breath of a slug. "Besides, we don't know where it goes."

"Clive obviously meant for you to find it. It probably goes somewhere important."

"I wonder if it connects to Professor Rosen's study." I mused, thinking of one of my grandfather's favorite school stories.

"Let's see if anyone has a torch we can borrow and then we can..." Gemma's words faded away. Measured footsteps were coming from down the hallway. We turned to see a figure round the far corner and continue towards us at a steady pace. With a yelp, Gemma latched onto my arm and dragged me through the doorway down several steps.

"Gemma, wait-"

Shh! It's that patroller!"

"We can't hide here!" I whispered.

"Too late!"

Gemma took another step downward and faltered, stretching out her arms to the walls on either side of the stairs to balance herself.

"You okay?"

Yeah, but there's something..." There was a dull clunk. Behind us, the wall began to slide back into its original position.

I turned to Gemma, her eyes wide behind glasses that reflected the light streaming through the opening. The band of light grew thinner and thinner until it was completely cut off with a decisive lurch and the wall settled back into place, sealing us in.

"Oops."

Breathing as quietly as we could, we listened as the footsteps drew near the wall. The hinges on the painting creaked.

"He's trying to get in." Gemma's nails were digging into my arm, "What do we do?"

"Calm down." I whispered back.

"We should keep going."

The nails released my throbbing skin and a step below me creaked.

"Gemma, wait!"

"Look, there's a light ahead."

With my arms outstretched, palms pressed against the walls like Gemma, I carefully made my way down the steps. Some distance into the darkness, a faint golden glow was flickering.

Above, the wall rattled.

"C'mon, maybe it will lead to another way out."

I glanced back up the stairs, bit my lip, and followed Gemma.

As the two of us began our way through the passage, I cannot say that I wasn't a little disappointed. One can get such silly romantic notions about hidden passageways from reading stories, and the peculiar riddle guarding this particular passage had left me hoping that such notions were true. Unfortunately, the secret passageway was nothing more than a low, dank tunnel strung with cobwebs and smelling of mildew and rusted pipes. The ceiling was just high enough for me to walk upright, while beneath my feet, the floor creaked, as if it were uncertain that it could support our combined weight.

We rounded a corner and emerged, blinking, into a small, dimly lit chamber. In the middle of the room a moldering velvet settee sat amidst piles of discarded objects that had overtaken nearly all of the floor space. Wooden chairs missing legs slumped against vegetable crates heaped with books and yellow-tarnished newspapers. Several large paintings leaned against the wall in one corner, while in another an old gramophone hunched like a forlorn vagrant. Scattered amongst the rubbish, sitting atop the crates and chairs, were several lit candles. They flickered silently, like a vigil held within a tomb.

"Creepy." Gemma said with obvious relish. She turned to me, strange shadows playing across her face, "What now?"

Before I could reply, the muffled sound of gears grinding came from down the passageway.

"Hide." I said. I leapt behind the settee and crouched down while Gemma ducked behind a stack of crates. She picked up a discarded chair leg and gripped it like a club.

"Just in case," She mouthed to me as creaking footsteps started down the stairs. Shoulders tense, ears straining, we waited as the footsteps reached the bottom of the steps and then started for the chamber.

 _Crrrreak-crrrrr._

 _Crrrreak-crrrrr._

 _Crrrreak-crrrrr._

 _Crrrreak-_

Clive stood blinking in the threshold of the chamber, as Gemma leapt out from behind her hiding place, swinging her chair leg with a tremendous growl.

"Arrrrrgggh!"

I stood up, nearly tripping over a nearby broom handle.

"Gemma, don't!"

In one fluid motion, Clive sidestepped Gemma right before she barreled into him. She stumbled out into the passageway and twisted around, breathing hard, still gripping the chair leg, as he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Please don't bean me over the head with that whatever you do."

Gemma dropped her makeshift weapon.

"Clive!?"

I stepped out from behind the settee.

"What are you doing down here?"

Clive turned to me, his arms drifting to his sides.

"Hello, Amelia. Didn't think you'd see me again so soon, did you?"

"Not down here, anyway."

Gemma let out a weak laugh.

"I'm so sorry. I honestly thought you were a Patroller."

"You would hit a Patroller?" Clive asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I would if I had to." she replied, "Now, care to explain why you're following us?"

Clive turned back to me and gave me an approving nod.

"Amelia, you solved my puzzle. Excellent. I knew you would."

"Ahem."

Gemma had her hands on her hips.

"And you're..."

"Gemma, thank you. And I already know your name, Mr. Infamous Clive Dove."

"So I see."

I stepped toward Gemma.

"Gemma helped me figure out your story. But, Clive, what is this all about?"

"I couldn't talk as freely as I would've liked to earlier. I needed to meet with you somewhere safer."

"You wanted Amelia to meet you down here alone?" Gemma asked.

"We're not alone." Clive said, "Who do you think lit these candles?"

Gemma and I shared a look.

"What?"

Clive glanced about the room, shifting his feet in a small circle. Something caught his eye and he smirked.

"Ah."

He stepped past us and bent down near a particularly large crate. With a bit of effort, he pushed it aside, revealing a small boy tucked into the corner, sitting cross-legged with his head bent over a leather-bound tome. Embossed in gold letters on the tome's spine was the title _Abnormal Psychology_.

"Hello, Bernard. Doing some light reading?"

"WHAT?"

Gemma looked aghast. She pointed at the boy with an accusatory finger.

"You were here the whole time and you didn't say anything?"

The boy glared at her. He had thick eyebrows that hung low over his eyes and a small puckered scowl. His forehead wrinkled, ploughing deep furrows in his brow.

"How was I supposed to know who you were?" The boy shut his book and stood up. He was several centimeters shorter than me, but looked to be a year or two older. His large ears glowed pink against the candlelight.

"Clive said to meet him here and next thing I know the two of you come barging in like you own the place."

Before Gemma could respond, Clive spoke up.

"Bernard, this is Amelia and-"

"I already know Mudget." Bernard cut in quickly, shooting suspicious glances at us both.

"Yes, we're in the same year, aren't we, _Trewinkle_?"

A scarlet tinge crept into Bernard's ears.

"Clive, I hope you know what you're doing," he growled.

"I do. Although Gemma is a bit of a surprise."

"Leave then." Bernard said to her, "You heard Clive, Mudget. He doesn't want you here." Bernard turned to Clive, "We can't trust her anyway, she's...she's-"

"I'm what?" Gemma snapped. Her playful tone was gone.

"Annoying, for starters."

Clive looked at each of us in turn, frowning.

I cleared my throat. Bernard's head whipped in my direction.

"Whatever you have against Gemma, Bernard, she helped me figure out Clive's story and solve the riddle. She has just as much right to be here as I do." I turned to Clive, "I'll stay if Gemma can stay."

Clive considered this for a moment, then he nodded.

"Fair enough."

"What? No!" Bernard protested, "Don't I get a say in any of this?"

"I don't think it would do much good sending Gemma off now." Clive replied. Gemma smiled.

"That's right. You wouldn't want the secret of your hidey-hole to be spread throughout the school, now would you?"

Bernard groaned.

"Fine. Whatever. No one ever listens to the one with the brain, the one with reason. Now, Clive, please explain to me what's going on. We don't have much time before curfew."

Clive didn't answer. He was studying me again. Resisting the urge to lower my eyes, I gazed back, keeping my face unreadable.

"You bested me at chess, Amelia. You solved my puzzle. I think it's only fair I tell you everything I know about Dreycott's secret. I wanted to say more in the library, but there were too many people about and-"

"And you had to test me first?"

"Something like that." Clive agreed with an apologetic shrug.

"It's alright. I enjoyed your story."

"It was depressing." Gemma countered.

"I'm afraid fiction isn't my strong suit."

"Ahem." Bernard folded his arms, "If all you three are going to do is chatter like girls in the lavatory, I think I'll get back to my reading."

Gemma stepped toward him.

"For your information, two of us _are_ girls, Trewinkle, so if you're just going to-"

"Have a seat." Clive cut in quickly, gesturing around the cluttered room. "Sorry for the mess. This place has become our hideout of sorts. It's safe from prying patrol eyes, anyway."

Clive sat down on a nearby stool, retrieving the small notebook he kept in his jacket pocket. I sat across from him on the settee. Gemma slid down the wall onto the floor, tucking her legs under her. She stuck her tongue out at Bernard, but he ignored her and remained standing, looking like a badger reluctantly coaxed from its den.

"This isn't a good idea." he muttered.

After flipping through his notes, Clive looked up at me, his eyes sharp and bright as they caught the candlelight, and asked a single question.

"Tell me, have you ever heard of the Sentient Statue?"


	5. Chapter Five

**The Story So Far...**

 _Amelia and Gemma solve a trail of puzzles that leads them to a secret passageway, the hideout of Clive and his friend, Bernard. Despite Bernard's reluctance, Clive resolves to fill Amelia and Gemma in on the details of his investigation into Dreycott's secrets. He begins by asking them a question concerning a certain "Sentient Statue"..._

 **Chapter Five**

Clive's question lingered in the air as silence fell upon the room. Neither Gemma nor Bernard appeared willing to answer and I wasn't sure what to say myself. I had never heard of any Sentient Statue before. I couldn't imagine what such a thing would be. Sentient wasn't a word one used very often, but I knew it indicated something that lived, breathed, and thought, traits not usually applied to a carved chunk of rock.

I glanced up from my lap where my eyes had automatically drifted. Clive was still looking at me intently. Did he expect me to know what he was referring to? And why was he always staring, as if he thought he could read my thoughts like a page of neatly typed text just by doing so. It was getting on my nerves.

I shifted in the settee. He'd have to try harder than that if he wanted to know what I was thinking. I knew how to seal every flicker of emotion away beneath a cool and steady gaze of my own. Or at least I had thought so. Back home I could do it so well. Yet since coming to Dreycott I had started to notice how easily unwanted feelings slipped through the cracks, especially when the situation was wresting itself from my hands. My messy first encounter with the Patrol was a testament to that. I still felt a fresh sting of shame whenever I remembered how I had acted that night, for letting complete strangers see a misty-eyed child crying over a chess piece instead of a young woman who was capable of standing up for herself. For letting Clive see. No matter. I had more than proved myself by winning that chess game and solving his string of puzzles, hadn't I? I had come to this hidden room of my own accord and I could walk out just as easily. I couldn't allow myself to become flustered. Straightening in my seat, I let my facial muscles relax. I was just about to give a reply when Gemma spoke up.

"Sentient Statue? You mean, like, in Pygmalion?" She was impatient, couldn't wait any longer for me to answer. It was apparent she had no idea what Clive was talking about either.

Bernard snorted loudly, shattering the atmosphere of beguiling intrigue that had been created with the question.

"Pig _what_?"

Gemma narrowed her eyes at him from across the room.

"Pig _you_ if you keep making noises like that."

Clive flashed me an exasperated look. Either he was annoyed at Gemma and Bernard's bickering or else he was finally annoyed at me for bringing Gemma. Probably both. I took it as an opportunity to speak up.

"I've never heard of it before."

"Of course." he replied, regaining his composure, "I didn't expect you would. Professor Rosen has done a tremendous job keeping everyone in the dark about it."

"Except for you, I presume?"

The hint of a sly smile crept onto Clive's mouth.

"True. But I owe that to Bernard." Clive glanced at Bernard, who scowled and shuffled his feet.

"Trewinkle? What's he got to do with it?" Gemma asked.

"A lot more than you." Bernard snapped.

Clive started in before Gemma could sling anything back.

"As I said in the library, I've been poking around Dreycott ever since my first year. From the moment I walked through the front doors, I realized there was something a little off about the whole school. The Patrol was part of it, of course, but there were other things. There was a teacher who was let go and no one seemed to know the reason why. Several pupils were terribly ill for almost a week. Another pupil claimed to have heard strange sounds in the middle of the night. In and of themselves, not so extraordinary. But taken together... I couldn't help but feel something sinister was happening at Dreycott right beneath everyone's noses. So I started investigating, asking questions, gathering information." Clive shook his head, "I was never able to uncover anything concrete. Substantial. After a while, I began to wonder if it was all a waste of time. But then, last term, Bernard gave me my biggest lead."

"The Sentient Statue."

I was sitting on the edge of the settee now, fiercely twisting one of my braids round and round my finger. The candlelight glinted off the woven blond strands, making them glow like fire. My earlier irritation with Clive was all but forgotten. Now all I felt was the hungry pull of anticipation. Finally. This was what I had been waiting for.

"Yes, it all started late last April." Clive glanced at Bernard, giving him a significant look. Bernard blinked.

"What?"

"You tell."

"No. This was your idea. You do it."

"But it happened to you. It's only right that you tell it." There was an edge of frustration to Clive's voice, "I know it's hard for you, but-"

"Fine." The word sounded as if it had been squeezed quite unwillingly from the small boy's chest. Looking like he was taking upon himself the biggest burden in the world, he let out a conspicuous huff that made Gemma snigger.

"Fine." He repeated.

He turned to me, scrunching his bushy eyebrows in concentration. I absently tugged on one of my baggy socks as I waited for him to begin.

"I was the first one to see it," he finally mumbled, "A living, breathing statue."

I didn't know what to say to this. Even Gemma looked unsure, her brow now creased as she processed the words. Clive's expression was unreadable, his eyes hooded as he clasped his chin pensively.

When it appeared all of us were waiting for further explanation, Bernard continued on.

"It was after dinner and I was heading back to the dormitories from the library. I started off, going the same route I always took. Then, somehow, I got turned around and wound up in the eastern wing. I tried back-tracking, but that just made me more confused. The next thing I knew I was standing at the entrance to the rotunda."

Gemma and I shared a look.

"Yes, that's right." Bernard's voice was less strained. He was getting into the story, his eyes cast faraway as he focused on recreating the world of his memory. "No one was there at that time of night, of course. I started walking towards a door across the room, trying to get my bearings. But when I was halfway there the lights flickered, then went out."

"A storm?" Gemma asked, her eyes narrowed as if trying to remember something.

"Not a storm." Clive answered, "In fact, if I remember correctly, it was very calm that evening."

"I thought it was must be prank, me being the wimpy little first-year that I was." Bernard continued, "Patrollers with nothing better to do. Felix Rimswald and his gang. So I called out, loud as I could, 'Ha, ha. Hilarious, you incompetent morons. How clever of you.'" Bernard shrugged, looking a little pleased at his own cleverness, "But no one answered or laughed or anything. Then I heard-" He swallowed suddenly, his ears tingeing pink, "Well, a girl singing or really it was more like humming. And I could sort of see a little bit then. There was a little bit of light, but very faint, milky light. I couldn't tell you where it came from. And then I saw her." Bernard closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. His next words were so quiet I had to strain my ears to make them out. "A living statue."

"What do you mean by living?" I asked.

Bernard's eyes snapped open, an irritated look souring his expression, "It was a statue. A girl made out of stone. Her dress and her hair were stiff and she was all mottled just like stone. I could even see lichen on her. And she was moving just like you'd expect a statue to move. Very slow. You could hear the stone grinding and grating." Bernard shuddered, "It was a statue, but moving, breath, and-and humming."

"Not just any statue." Clive added.

I glanced at him.

"What do you mean?"

"It was the same statue as the one on the fountain in the courtyard." Bernard said quietly, "I swear it was. I mean, I couldn't see her face all that well, but her dress was exactly the same. More ragged maybe. So was her hair. But it was her."

I thought back to the melancholy statue I had observed my first evening at Dreycott. It had seemed comforting then, a silent companion, but now I imagined its expression containing a hint of malice. I turned to look back down the tunnel, past the reach of the candles' dim glow, half-expecting to see a pale figure emerging from the blackness beyond.

"You do know how crazy that sounds," Gemma said. "Completely and totally banana nut muffins."

"Of course you wouldn't believe me, Mudget." Bernard squeezed his folded arms tighter against his chest, hunching his shoulders. "No one does." He added in a low tone.

"Don't be melodramatic. I never said I didn't believe you."

"I don't care what you think. It really happened whether you want to believe it or not."

"Keep going, Bernard." Clive said.

Bernard furrowed his brow deeper. He looked a bit like a scruffy old owl.

"I didn't know what to do at first. I could only stare. I felt so numb and cold and sick." Bernard's face had gone very white. I finally noticed his freckles, each one standing out like a speckle of paint. "And then they dropped from the ceiling."

There was a pause. Bernard didn't appear to want to say anymore. His eyes had become fixated upon the debris littering the floor.

"What dropped from the ceiling?" I asked, gently.

Bernard's eyes darted over to Gemma and back.

"Puppets." The word was a mere breath.

"What?" Gemma leaned forward, "Puppies?"

"I'm not going to repeat myself. They all dropped from the ceiling, horrible hideous things with their long jangly arms and legs, strings everywhere, all twisted up."

"Wait, did you say puppets?" Gemma was trying to suppress a grin.

"Yes, Bernard has pupaphobia." Clive told her, "A fear of puppets."

"No offense, but that's sort of kind of funny."

Bernard shot both of them dark looks.

"How is that _not_ offensive? And thank you so much, Clive, for pointing out the obvious. Your knowledge of phobias, which you learned from me by the way, astounds us all. And anyway these weren't ordinary puppets, they were puppets from hell, the most ghastly grins, bug eyes, ugh, anyone would be..." He trailed off as his ears reddened further. I tried giving him a sympathetic look, but he wouldn't meet my eyes.

"To be all alone in the dark and have that happen...I would be scared." I said.

Bernard finally looked at me, but his expression was testy.

"Scared? You think that's all I was?" He shook his head, "There's no word to describe it. What I felt. Like I'd fallen from a cliff and was drowning in a foul stenching conglomeration of black oily-"

" _Bernard_." Clive gave his head an almost imperceptible shake, looking like he might either be embarrassed or trying to keep himself from laughing.

"Wow. Thanks for that stunning mental image." Gemma hesitated, "And, er, you're absolutely certain you weren't imagining things?" She wasn't being funny this time.

"How stupid do you think I am? Of course I wasn't imagining things. I have a terrible imagination. I am one of the least imaginative people at this school."

"Sadly true." Clive said with a small smile.

"I dunno, that was a pretty imaginative simile you just made about the cliff." Gemma added.

Bernard was now splitting his glare between the three of us.

"You want to hear the rest or not? Because I really don't feel liking telling this story again."

"We're sorry." I said, "Please, continue."

Bernard let out another long breath.

"Like I said, there was no way I imagined it. They were everywhere, dropping from the ceiling, in front of me, behind. It all happened so fast. I dropped to the ground too, I think, or tripped or something and covered my head, prayed it was only my imagination, just a bad dream. Or if I was going to die, that it would happen quickly. Next thing I knew, the lights were back on and two patrollers were standing over me."

"And the statue?"

Bernard shook his head.

"No sign of her or the blasted puppets. Just gone."

"It's true." Clive flipped through his notebook absentmindedly, "There was nothing there. I followed the patrol to the rotunda, you see, thinking something might be afoot. And Bernard really wasn't imagining things because after that-"

"After that?" Gemma prodded.

"The statue appeared two more times." Bernard said.

"Right. The statue has appeared three times total. It was more or less the same story with the next two students. Both somehow ended up alone in the rotunda. The lights went out, the statue appeared, and then they each encountered what they feared most."

"So, with Bernard it was puppets..." Gemma mused aloud.

"We've established that." Bernard said.

"Yes. Colin Turner was the next one to see the statue. Apparently, he found himself in the middle of a thunderstorm right there in the rotunda. And he wasn't imagining it either, because when the patrol found him he was absolutely soaked. Edith James was the last one. Claims she saw the statue and then heard hundreds of voices whispering all around her. As you can imagine, after each incident the pupil who saw the statue went into somewhat of a state of shock. Colin and Edith both ended up leaving for home. Neither returned this term."

"But not you, Bernard?" I asked.

"How could I?" Bernard said. "My dad's a teacher here. You know what he told me when he found out? He said I had a Vitamin D deficiency. My own dad thought I hallucinated puppets because I wasn't taking my supplements properly!" Bernard kicked a nearby crate.

"What about Professor Rosen? Did you speak with her?"

"I did. Fat lot of good that did. She told me it was all a prank, that the students responsible would be caught and expelled. I wasn't to mention the incident to anyone."

My mind was whirring. I was finally putting everything together.

"So the accidents Professor Rosen mentioned in her speech. She was actually referring to the Sentient Statue? The whole rotting floorboards renovation story _was_ made up."

"Right." Clive said, "Somehow she's managed to keep the real story under tight wraps. I don't know what she told the families of the two pupils who left, but no one is pursuing any legal action against the school, as far as I know. The Patrol knows the truth, of course. And I learned it when I got Bernard to tell me."

"How did you manage that?" Gemma asked with a smirk.

"Clive was the only willing to believe me." Bernard said, "Even before he knew the whole story."

"It's all so incomprehensible." I said quietly, "A sentient statue? Surely it...I mean it has to be some sort of trick."

I wasn't one to believe in ghosts or anything of that sort. My grandad had always told me that people often saw exactly what they wanted to see. A shiver, a furtive noise, a flickering light, all could easily become restless spirits, if only in the minds of those who believed in such things. But it didn't appear that Bernard fell under that category. As he himself had argued, he didn't seem at all the sort to entertain such fantasies. That left only one option. Anything else simply couldn't be possible.

"Of course." Gemma was pacing the small room now, too full of inquisitive energy to sit any longer. "Smoke and mirrors. And I'll bet you a ticket to Covent Garden the Patrol is behind it. Rosen too. They want to keep everyone in line by scaring them half to death."

"But remember," Clive put in, "The statue only appeared to three pupils, two of which are now gone. Not a very effective method of discipline."

"And Rosen doesn't want anyone to know about the statue." I added, "Which is understandable, I suppose. Something like this could put the school in very hot water."

"Okay," Gemma said, "Scrap that. What if it is a real ghost or possessed statue or something? Don't tell me you've never had your little neck hairs stand up at some point here. This place is probably more haunted than the Tower of London."

"It was terrifying, I'll admit." Bernard said, "But ghosts are only the result of hypnagogic hallucinations that occur in a transitional dormant state stemming from a number of environmental factors that cause the seer to unconsciously perceive an area as haunted. And, like I said, I was certainly not hallucinating."

Gemma's smirk returned.

"Well, that clears things up."

"Did many people know about your phobia, Bernard?" I asked, a thought suddenly occurring to me.

"No. I never told anyone. Why would I?"

"Aha! So it must be something supernatural!"

Bernard rolled his eyes at Gemma.

"Just like that then? That's the only plausible solution you can think of?"

"It's no use." Clive was scowling, "We simply don't have enough evidence to say why it happened or how. We can't even make a decent guess without falling back on conjecture." He paused, considering something. "If it is all a trick, what could someone possibly seek to gain from it? The results don't seem to be worth the amount of effort it would take to pull off such a stunt."

"Someone could be trying to close the school down." Gemma offered.

Clive shook his head.

"Like I said, until we know more, it's all conjecture."

"Have you examined the statue in the courtyard?" I asked. This seemed to me the first order of business.

"Yes. Several times." Clive shook his head dismissively, "It's just an ordinary statue."

"And the statue hasn't appeared at all this term, right?"

"Right. Three times last term. That's it." Clive paused, staring at the cluttered floor, "What I really need is to see it for myself."

"You think it's going to appear again?" Gemma said, "But how would you ever know when exactly? It's completely random, right?"

Clive straightened.

"That's why I've been researching Dreycott's past, trying to find out as much about that fountain in the courtyard as I can. Unfortunately, there isn't much."

"We need the book." Bernard muttered.

"Wait, what book?" It was my turn to sit up straighter.

"A book on Dreycott's history." Clive said.

"That sounds helpful." Gemma said, "Where is it?"

"There's only one copy and it's in the library's special collection."

"Oh." Gemma wrinkled her nose.

I glanced between the two of them.

"I still don't see the problem."

Clive sighed.

"The special collection, as ridiculous as it sounds, is only open to the Patrol. One of their many perks."

"That does throw a wrench in things."

"What?" Gemma pointed at Clive, "Aren't you Mr. Rule-breaker-extraordinare? Don't tell me you're not capable of breaking into the library and sneaking a peek."

Clive sighed.

"You give me too much credit. I've never done anything on that scale before. Besides, I'm one misstep from being expelled, even with-never-mind."

I wanted to question him further on this, but decided there were more pressing matters to attend to.

"And this book, it's your only lead?"

"The only one I can think of. It might offer some clue about the statue, it's origins, any stories connected to it, that would allow us to piece together when it would appear again."

" _If_ it appears again." Bernard added, "Rosen's been working like mad to ensure that won't happen."

"Is that the reason behind all the new rules?" I asked, "The early curfew?"

"Most likely." Clive said, "She may be strict, but Rosen does seem like she's genuinely trying to keep everyone here safe. I've still been keeping my eye on her, of course."

"Well, I say we break in, bank-heist style." Gemma said.

"Fortunately, you're not the one deciding the plan." Bernard replied.

"I can make suggestions, can't I, Tinkle-winkle?"

"No and if you call me that again I will walk straight out of this room and go fetch a patroller. Vivian, if I can manage."

"Not unless I fetch your best buddy Felix first."

"There is one other option." Clive spoke slowly, carefully. "Bernard's going to try out for the Patrol."

"What?" Gemma suppressed a laugh, "I'm sorry, but I can't see that happening."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Bernard grumbled.

"It's true, his chances are slim, but we have to at least give it a shot."

"Why don't you try out, Clive?" Gemma's tone was teasing. He gave her a look.

"I think you know very well why."

"Well, don't look at me." Gemma said, "Vivian hates my guts."

Clive turned to me.

"What about you, Amelia?" His voice was nonchalant, but I saw the glint in his eye, "Ever thought of trying out for the Patrol?"

And then I could see it. All of it made sense now. The "chance" encounter in the library, the chess game, Clive's note, Bernard's story. Everything had been leading to this question, like a row of dominoes falling neatly in a line, nudged by Clive's own careful finger. I had to hand it him. He was quite the mastermind. For some reason, I felt a drop of disappointment, but I shoved it aside.

"Wait." I stood up, "Wait a minute. This. This is the real reason you wanted my help, isn't it?" I wanted to be angry, but felt too triumphant. I was catching on. Past the friendly gestures and gentlemanly manners, Clive was like his pocket watch- all calculated cogs and gears, turning with well-oiled precision.

Clive stared back, nearly expressionless. He finally closed his eyes. Gemma and Bernard looked at us both with slight frowns, their own feud forgotten. Waiting.

"Yes and no." Clive's eyes remained shut, "I do want you to try out for the Patrol, but that's not the only reason I want your help."

"But Clive, you told me yourself Rosen uses the Patrol to...to cozy up to rich parents. Why would she ever choose me? My family doesn't have any money."

Clive ran a hand through his hair.

"I know what I said. And it's true. But there are multiple factors that go into the selection process. There's an exam. If you do well enough on it, you may have a chance. And then there's an interview with Rosen. If you can manage to impress her, show her how trustworthy you could be..."

"Seems much too complicated." Gemma piped up uneasily, "Can't we just ask someone on the Patrol to borrow the book for us? Bribe them or something? There's got to be someone."

We all remained silent.

"Ursula isn't so bad." I finally relented, thinking of one of Vivian's assistants who seemed polite, if not exactly friendly.

"We can't trust the Patrol." Clive said, "I don't want anyone to know what we're up to. If Rosen or the Patrol are somehow involved, we can't risk having them putting up their guard and cracking down even harder than what they've already done."

"But to try and join the Patrol just for a book..." I didn't like the idea. And I still couldn't see why Clive had singled me out as the ideal candidate.

"It's not just the book. If you or Bernard managed to get on the Patrol you'd have a direct line to Rosen. You'd be able to really see what goes on around here. That could prove to be vital to my investigation."

I sat back down in the settee.

"You want me to be your spy."

"You or Bernard."

"But you think I have the best chance." I shook my head. "I don't understand. Why me?"

"Why not you? I know you do well in your classes. You're quiet, obedient, an all around good student with every reason to want to try out for the Patrol. No one would be suspicious in the slightest."

"Am I even old enough?"

"There are several positions for junior patrollers open this term. You get most of the privileges, but fewer responsibilities. Near the end of term there'll be the exam, then the interviews, and at the term's closing assembly Rosen will announce her picks. You'd start up first thing next term."

I gripped a loose strand of my hair and pulled hard, wincing at the pinch. Clive had answered all of my objections. I couldn't think of anything else to say that would convince him of how much I opposed the idea without simply giving him a flat no. And I was opposed. Hobnobbing with the over-privileged bullies of Dreycott in order to spy on them was an idea so far from anything I would ever attempt it seemed ridiculous to even consider. Overwhelming too. The evening, like a wide tree trunk, had split off and twisted into so many branches and twigs that it made be exhausted to try and follow them all. Riddles, ghosts, statues, puppets, and the Patrol to boot. I suppose the last one wasn't so surprising. They always seemed to be at the center of everything.

"Clive," Bernard looked tired, "It's nearly eight. We need to get back."

Clive pulled his watch from his jacket and checked the time.

"Right, but we'd better leave one at a time. I'll go first. Bernard you bring up the rear."

"Yeah, bring up the rear, Trewinkle." Gemma echoed, but her voice had lost its earlier zest. Bernard stared at her impassively, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Clive took a small torch from his pocket and flicked it on. He stepped into the tunnel and waved us forward. Gemma and I followed him as Bernard extinguished the candles until the room behind us was nothing more than gaping darkness.

"So, how did you find this place?" Gemma asked Clive as we passed through the low tunnel. Despite the heavy thoughts bearing down on me, my ears perked up, curious.

"Doing what he does best," Bernard said from behind. "Sticking his nose in all the wrong places."

"I'm still unsure of the original purpose of this passage." Clive added as he reached the stairs. "Or who decided to use it to store all that rubbish back there."

The four of us crowded near the top of the steps, bound by a circle of light from the torch, as Bernard pressed the switch on the wall that Gemma had accidentally stumbled into earlier. As the wall section ground open, Clive switched off his torch and motioned for us to take a few steps down. Light flooded into the stairway, revealing an empty hallway.

"Wait until I round the corner, then you go next Gemma, and so on." Clive whispered, "I know a route that should keep us out of patroller territory."

We each nodded.

Clive cautiously stepped out of the passage, peered around, and then started down the hallway at a brisk pace. Once he had disappeared around the far corner, Gemma scurried out. I went next, following Gemma at a distance of a few metres.

Apart from our widely spaced footsteps the hallways were still. The rain had either stopped or else had settled into a light shower too soft to pentrate through the walls. Through the darkened windows I could see only my own reflection staring back, a small ghostly form with wide eyes. I was shaking slightly, something I did whenever I was especially excited or nervous. My mind was brimming. Ghostly statues, passageways, fears springing to sudden life like grotesque tulips in the midst of winter. My grandad's colorful stories now seemed almost dull in comparison. For the past hour, the rest of the world had faded in the face of this gray fairytale, this ghastly enigma that was supposed to be truth. I wanted to know more. I wanted to be part of it, to help peel back the layers and see what small, terrible thing lay at the center. To expose it. But the role Clive had in mind for me was not at all to my liking.

Finally, I arrived at the stairs that lead up to the girls' dormitories. Gemma had just reached the top, while Clive waited at the foot, hands shoved in his pockets. He motioned for me to wait as Gemma crept into the dorms with a final backwards glance. Bernard arrived soon after me and started down the hallway that lead to the boys' dorms. He threw his own glance over his shoulder as he went.

"Go on ahead, Bernard. I'll be along in a minute." Clive said.

Bernard shrugged, grumbled something under his breath, and went on his way. Once he was out of earshot, Clive turned to me.

"Sorry if he comes across a little standoffish. He really is a decent fellow once you get to know him. Incredibly smart. But he's had his fair share of trouble with the Patrol."

I yawned. Surely Clive hadn't stopped me just to chat about Bernard. I was weary of games. I wanted him to get straight to the point.

"I should be getting to bed."

"Wait." Clive held up his hands, "Before you go, tell me what you think of the idea. Of joining the Patrol."

"I don't know. I guess I'll have to think on it."

No. The answer was no. There was no question. But I didn't have the heart to tell Clive that right then and there. I'd wait for morning light to help soften the blow.

"Of course. Do make up your own mind about it. I don't mean to pressure you."

"I will. Although I don't know what chance I have." I started up the steps.

"Amelia."

I stopped and turned about half-way up. Now what?

"Please don't think I'm just using you." Clive's expression was grave, his tone flat. He looked small standing at the bottom of the steps.

I had to admire his insight. He knew I was upset and had correctly guessed the reason why. It was true. I did think he had used me. All of his kindness now seemed like a mere lure to get me to accept his proposition, to be his little mole. I could understand his desire to learn more about the statue, to find an insider who could push his investigation along. It was a brilliant idea, actually, even if I didn't feel I was right for the job. What I didn't like was his lack of transparency about it. Ever since my first night at Dreycott, I had thought of Clive as a friend. Our game in the library that day had made me feel that he wanted to be around me, genuinely enjoyed my company. Now that I knew he had ulterior motives I couldn't help but question the entire afternoon we'd spent together.

Then again, maybe I wasn't being quite fair. After all, I had entered the game with an agenda of my own. But I had been fairly up front about wanting my questions answered, hadn't I? My suggestion to alter the stakes of the game had made that clear. And I had sincerely enjoyed spending time with Clive. I realized that now. I may have started the game with a single-minded desire for answers, but by the end it was the boy behind the answers I wanted to know better. Was that why I was so hurt now? Because he hadn't felt the same way? Or was it because an unwanted suspicion was creeping in, one that made me think that Clive and I were similarily flawed in our proclivity to put our own goals above other people? Somehow, admitting that to myself just made me feel angrier.

"You knew I'd be in the library today. You knew I'd ask you for that game you owed me." My clumsy fall had given Clive a convenient chance to interact, but even if I'd remained in my chair he would have found an opening to talk with me. I was sure of it.

"It's true. You see, I'd been observing you and-"

"You've been observing me." What was I, a parrot at a zoo?

"From afar. I've been looking for someone to join the Patrol since last term. But listen. Even if you don't make the Patrol, I'd still like your help."

I paused, uncertain.

"Why?"

"Honestly? Bernard and I are at a dead end. We're in dire need of fresh perspective and I think you've got exactly that."

I fiddled with the end of my braid, hoping my silence would end the conversation. I was no longer willing to take what Clive said at face value.

"I knew it the moment I saw you standing up to those patrollers," He continued.

I looked up at him.

"What are you talking about?"

"When you were out on the lawn your first night here. You stood up to Vivian."

I scoffed.

"You mean before I was knocked to the ground?"

"That doesn't matter. What matters is you cared enough to fight back. That's what everyone else at this school has failed to do. Don't you see? Rosen's distant, the Patrol has everyone under their stranglehold, and the teachers try and go along as if nothing were the matter. No one knows anything. No one questions anything. But everyone's frightened. There's a darkness here. I feel something terrible has been loosed upon this school."

"And you think you can stop it?"

"I have to try. _We_ have to try. We have to fight to expose the truth before anyone else gets hurt. You saw how scared Bernard was. To think that someone might be behind this, terrorizing innocent students for some reason I can't even imagine, is just outrageous. It's sick. Who knows if Rosen will do anything about it, if she _can_ do anything about it." Clive's hands balled into fists. "I'm not waiting around to find out. I'm going to keep searching and asking and scraping and digging until my knuckles are bloody and raw and I finally strike upon the answer to this puzzle. _Justice_ , Amelia. This is about bringing whoever's responsible for this nightmare to justice."

There was a strange determination, a flicker of fire, in his eyes. I was taken aback. His words sounded genuine. This was the real Clive. Not the sideways glances, the sly smile, the round-about puzzles and charming ambiguity. All were a part of him certainly, a part of the particular image he wished to project, but now, if only for a moment, he had dropped all of that, exposing an intensity that was startling and yet also strangely vulnerable. I had never heard a boy speak the way he did.

"I-" I couldn't find my voice, "I'll have to think about it."

I turned away and started up the stairs, feeling a wave of guilt and doubt wash over me. Clive may not have been entirely open with his intentions toward me, but I saw now that his goal was honorable. He truly did want to help the school. And I wanted to help him. It wasn't just curiosity anymore, although that did remain. Clive spoke as if it was our duty to uncover the truth and I was inclined to agree with him. Something my grandad had told me several years back flashed through my mind. In between his more jovial moods would come solemn reveries when he read, and sighed, and fretted about the state of the world. At these moments he shared with me insights that often sounded far too lofty to apply to my own small existence. Yet they had lingered with me nonetheless.

"Almost worse than those who carry out evil, Amelia, are those who are given the chance to do great good and yet utterly scorn it."

Would it be right to refuse to take part in Clive's plan, however far-fetched it was, if there was a chance that it could ultimately help to shed light on Dreycott's darkness? My initial response to the idea had been selfish. I could admit that. I was afraid, afraid of the Patrol and of stepping outside my bubble of solitude where I knew I could keep myself safe and in control. My doubts began to slide into acute disgust. No, it wasn't a bubble, that was too soft a word, but a prison I walled myself in, brick by brick, each day. One that kept me from ever doing or saying anything worthwhile.

I knew, then, what I had to do. I couldn't wait, I couldn't allow myself to think on it, otherwise my mind would be set totally against the idea. Clive's words had kindled a fire within me, but I had to act before the embers cooled and I latched onto excuses. If I let this chance slip by now, allowed myself to be persuaded against it, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I turned around just as Clive was heading down the hallway.

"Wait."

He stopped, mid-stride and looked at me, head cocked, expression registering...was it surprise or just the opposite?

"I'll do it." I said. I squeezed my eyes shut. It was now or never. "I'm going to join the Patrol."


	6. Chapter Six

**The Story So Far...**

 _Clive and his friend Bernard tell Amelia and Gemma about the Sentient Statue, a ghostly figure who reveals to pupils their darkest fears. Facing a potential dead end, Clive wants Amelia and Bernard try out for the Dreycott Patrol in order to further his investigation. After experiencing initial reluctance, Amelia finally agrees..._

 **Chapter Six**

"Checkmate."

I placed my king upon the board with a decisive stamp. The small group of students crowded about the table let loose a smattering of applause. Across from me, my opponent, a slight boy named Darnell who was even quieter than I was, gave me a curt nod, impressed. Although he rarely spoke, his facial expressions were usually enough for one to glean his general thoughts. Right now, the firm line of his mouth and the glint in his eye told me he was already dying for a rematch.

"Good game," I said, as we stood and shook hands.

Chess club was over for the day. Everyone else had long since completed their own games, which had given them an excuse to drift over to the table where Darnell and I, until just now, had been locked in a fierce battle of wits. Now that we were finished, the crowd started to disperse as my classmates collected their things and headed for the door, chatting about homework, chess tactics, and the latest gossip (Vivian and Archibald Blaze, Head Boy and captain of the football team, were apparently a couple once again). A few stopped to offer me congratulations on yet another victory and question me about some move or another I had made during the game.

Much to my embarrassment, my games were held to a certain level of reverent scrutiny not afforded to anyone else in the club. Everyone wanted to see what openings I used, which tactics I preferred, and every other detail of my strategies. There was a reason for this, of course, although I tried to draw as little attention to it as possible. In truth, I hadn't lost a match since joining the club, which both thrilled and frustrated my fellow chess enthusiasts. I knew there were a number of bets going on who would finally be the one to beat me (or if I could be beaten at all). Those who felt too intimidated to take me on in a match were starting to ask if I'd give them private lessons, but so far I had politely declined.

Grabbing my bag off the back of my chair, I wound my way around students and tables, running a list through my mind of the things I needed to get done before dinner rolled around. Halfway to the door, however, I was stopped by two classmates.

"Great game, Amelia." This was the shorter of the two, Shelby, a round boy who was never seen without his giant backpack riding high on his shoulders, "Excellent use of triangulation."

I gave him a small smile. Shelby was in my year and, while he wasn't the most skilled of players, was always sincere in his compliments.

"Thank you."

The other pupil, a girl named Madge who had frizzy chocolate hair and penguin earrings, rolled her eyes.

" _Someone's_ been brushing up on their vocabulary," she snickered.

"Hey, I'm sure any chessman worth his salt knows all about triangulation," Shelby protested, "Right, Amelia?"

"Well, I don't know about tha-"

" _Any_ way," Madge butt in, "We don't want to waste your time, Amelia. We're sure you have plenty to do, so let's cut right to the chase." She elbowed Shelby, who opened his mouth and shut it again.

"Oh. Right. Amelia." he stammered, tugging on the straps of his backpack. He cleared his throat. "We, erm, we heard you're trying out for Patrol."

Madge clapped her hands together.

"Is it true!?"

I became aware that everyone in the room was now focused on the three of us. Well, except for Mr. Grambler. He was the teacher who headed up chess club, but frequently used the time to get in a late afternoon nap. He was slumped over at his desk now, snoring softly on top of a pile of unmarked papers.

"...Yes. It's true." I answered, baffled by why Shelby and Madge would care about such a thing. They were looking at me in a very peculiar manner, like I was either a goddess or else I had jam smeared all over my face. How had the news spread so quickly? True, Dreycott did not have a particularly large number of pupils, but it had only been this morning that Bernard and I had made the jaunt over to Professor Rosen's office to add our names to the sign-up sheet posted right outside the door.

"Excellent," Shelby said, "We might finally get some respect around here. People won't laugh at the chess club any longer, no sirree!"

Oh, so that explained it. Apparently me making Patrol would be some sort of badge of honor for the club. Funny, I would have guessed the opposite was true. I shifted my feet, trying to think of the easiest way to extract myself from the conversation.

"I'd only be a junior patroller," I said, "And I haven't even taken the exam yet."

"If you do make it, Amelia, you've got to convince Rosen not to disband chess club," Madge added, "Rumor has it a bunch of the clubs are on the chopping block, chess club included. I mean I can understand poetry club getting the sack, but chess club!? Maybe with our star player on the Patrol, Rosen'd change her mind. We've just got to make it to the tourney this year! With you, we might actually have a chance of winning!"

"The tourney?" I asked, more to draw attention away from her "star player" remarks than anything else. An uncomfortable heat was starting to prickle up the back of my neck and I became increasingly conscious of the many pairs of eyes trained on me.

"Yeah," Shelby said, "The end of the year junior chess tournament. Every eligible school in London can enter their top player."

"You would qualify for sure," Madge said, staring dreamily into space, "We'd have such a good chance of making it to the finals. But you've got to convince Rosen not to disband us...if you get on Patrol, that is."

She flashed me a sweet smile and Shelby gave me a thumbs up, nodding encouragingly. I felt like groaning. Now if I made Patrol not only did I have to act the part of a spy, but also a shameless advocate for chess club.

"I'll see what I can do." I said, in as neutral a voice as possible. I started to step around Shelby and Madge to slip out the door when another voice made me stop.

"Pah! Patrol!" A boy named Gavin spoke up, "If Amelia makes it who says she'll stick around with us bottom-dwellers, anyway?"

I turned and was about to speak up when Gavin continued on, "No offense to you, Amelia, but it happens to every decent person who joins Patrol. They suck you in and you become just another mindless drone in the system."

"You're just jealous because you're too afraid to try out yourself, Gavin." Madge replied.

"Be one of Rosen's lapdogs? Her silver sissies? You'd have to be a loon to want that." Gavin hesitated, "No offense, Amelia."

"He's right." A boy named Charlie boomed, "The Patrol aren't prefects, they're bullies. We shouldn't have anything to do with them."

"I think it's a great idea," A girl named Harper piped up, "If all of us little people tried out for Patrol maybe we could make some changes around here. Amelia's an inspiration to us all."

First, "star player", now "inspiration"? I was really starting to feel noxious.

"Is that what you're going to do, Amelia? Try and _reform_ Dreycott?" Gavin asked me, raising a skeptical eyebrow, "Or are you just in it for the power? The perks?"

"They get free sweets." A boy called Keller smacked his lips together.

"She's going to make sure Rosen doesn't ruin our chances of victory." Madge said firmly, folding her arms.

I was going to try and speak up once more, but Mr. Grambler took the opportunity to suddenly wake up and look around. He had the habit of abruptly joining in on the conversation when everyone else thought he was out cold.

"What's this about ruining chances of victory? Don't speak in such a manner. Here in chess club we stand for positivity. Positive thinking is the key to vic...tor...yyyieee..."

His final syllable turned into a whistle of a snore as his head slumped to rest on his chest.

"What I meant to say is," Gavin said, ignoring Mr. Grambler's interjection, "Why exactly are you trying out for Patrol, Amelia? As far as I've seen, you avoid them whenever possible." He paused, "...Well?"

I was sure my face had reached ripened apple on the blushing scale. Before I could reply, yet another voice broke into the conversation.

"Oh, leave her alone, all of you. Or didn't your mums teach you to mind your own business?"

Everyone turned to look at a girl with short blond hair leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest.

"No offense, but how often do you listen to your mum, Darcy?" Gavin taunted.

"My, we are curious today, aren't we, Gavin?" Darcy's gave him a wry smile, "Let Amelia alone. She doesn't have to tell you anything. And I do hope that offends you."

Gavin grumbled something incoherent and, grabbing his bag, swiftly exited the class room. Under Darcy's glare, everyone else returned to their own business.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Shelby still beaming up at me.

"If you do make it, just remember us. We're counting on you!"

He waved as Madge hauled him out the door by his backpack. Finally free, I stepped out into the corridor myself. I hadn't taken more than a few steps when I heard,

"Hey. Wait up."

I spun around. It was Darcy.

"You do surprise me, Amelia."

She sounded impressed. Darcy, as I had since learned, was Mrs. Goodson's daughter and was in Year 11, like Clive. She would pop into chess club every now and then, playing a decent game while doling out advice to whoever needed it. I liked her, but was also a little intimidated. Not that she was unkind, only that her dark eye-liner, jagged hair, and ears that bristled with piercings seemed to be warning others to keep their distance.

"Hello, Darcy." I said in guarded reply, thinking that she was probably just as curious as Gavin.

As if reading my mind, Darcy waved her hand dismissively.

"Don't worry, I'm not here to pry. I meant what I said." She glanced around the hallway, "I just wanted to offer you some tips. I tried out myself few years back."

"You did?" I couldn't see Darcy on the Patrol.

"My mother." Darcy answered, rolling her eyes.

"Ah." I bit my lip, "Is the exam hard?"

"Not especially. Just know the handbook well. I'm mean really well. Study it cover to cover. If you do that, you should be fine. Well, then there's the interview with Rosen, of course."

"I'm definitely not looking forward to that."

Darcy shrugged.

"Honestly, the exam and the interview should be sunshine for a brain like you. It's the other patrollers I'd be more concerned about."

"What do you mean?"

"Look. Gavin's a bit of a windbag, but he's right about one thing. The Patrol doesn't take too kindly to accepting outsiders. They're going to try and shove you into the mold. And if they can't do that, well, they'll just making life a living hell for you until you quit."

Darcy must have noticed how pale I'd gone, because she suddenly looked contrite.

"Sorry. I'm not trying to scare you off. I just want you to know what you're getting yourself into."

"I know what I'm doing." I said, trying to reaffirm my own confidence. "But, thank you."

"You've crossed the Patrol before, but I'm not exaggerating when I say you've only seen the tip of a very large and very dark iceberg. Be careful." She paused, then continued, her tone somewhat lighter, "I wouldn't be saying any of this unless I thought you had a fair chance of making it. You've got a clever head on your shoulders. Use it."

With a nod, she shouldered her bag and headed off down the corridor. I stood for a moment and watched her disappear around the corner, listening to Mr. Grambler's gentle snoring coming from the classroom behind me.

Darcy was right of course, but I couldn't think of all that now, as much as I wanted to do so. In chess, one was always planning ahead, thinking of possible outcomes, alternate solutions, and potential slip-ups. I approached my decisions outside of the game in a similar manner. Yet, I was afraid if I did so this time I would crack under the pressure of endless worry and back out before I had even tried. One step at a time. That had to be my new philosophy for the present if I wanted to maintain my sanity. I would deal with the patrollers when, and only if, they became my _fellow_ patrollers and not a moment sooner. With that thought, I started down the corridor at a brisk pace as if to solidify my resolution.

I had some studying to attend to in the library, but wanted to make a quick detour first. I exited out onto the front lawn through the nearest side door and started down the worn path. The afternoon was crisp and clear after yesterday's lingering rain. A few decadent white clouds meandered like sheep across the sky as the sun dipped behind the trees, their leaves shimmering in the breeze. From somewhere nearby came the nonchalant caw of a crow, mingled with the hazy burble of London traffic, a quiet reminder that outside of Dreycott's gates lay a sprawling metropolis. Across the lawn, I caught sight of a short figure stooped over the grass, sprinkling something out of a large sack. It was probably the old groundsman. I glimpsed him from time to time, always from a distance.

Skirting a bench and a row of bushes I finally arrived at the object of my detour, the fountain. Clive had told me he had already examined it, but I wanted to look it over myself. Apart from my first night at Dreycott when I had rested briefly on the fountain's edge, I had not paid it much attention. Now it seemed the focal point, the center of gravity, which all of the odd happenings at the school spun about like planets.

The fountain was much the same as I had remembered it. Same worn stone basin with crumbling edges. Same figure at the center dressed in pale lichen. The girl did not look like the sort who would come to life to torture children with nightmarish visions. Her expression was soft and sad, her hands small and slender as they held the tilted vase that trickled its endless stream of water. She looked like she couldn't be any older than eighteen.

I started to circle the fountain, unsure of what I was hoping to find. Something, anything, that might stand out to me. When the statue's profile was in view, I stopped, fixated upon it. A peculiar feeling came over me, the feeling one receives when a half-remembered dream begins to merge with waking life. It tickled at the back of my mind, but slipped away every time I tried reaching for it. I continued around to the back of the statue and the feeling faded. Staring at the statue's long wind-blown tresses I was totally unprepared for the grating rasp of a voice centimeters from my ear.

"Bunkin' off, are we?"

I started and then spun about to find an ancient looking man standing right behind me. It was the groundsman. A large sunhat shadowed the upper half of his tanned face while the lower half was nearly hidden behind a shaggy gray beard. His overalls and green gloves were smeared with dirt, his rubber boots caked with a thick layer of mud. He had a very distinct smell, a mixture of freshly turned loam, rotting wood, and strong pipe tobacco.

"No." I squeaked, blinking to take in the sagging form in front of me. The groundskeepers' eyes glinted from under the brim of his hat.

"Whaddya want wi' Hyacinth, hmmm?"

Before I could answer, the old man hobbled around to the front of the fountain and stood with his arms akimbo, squinting up at the statue's face. After a moment, I went and stood somewhat near him.

"Is the statue's name...Hyacinth?" I ventured.

"Course. Sez ri' there on th'... " The man's voice trailed away as his eyes fell towards the base of the fountain, "Oh. Hmph. Neveh mind. I answered yer question, now you answer mine. Quick-like."

"I just wanted to look at it." The groundsman looked ready to be outraged, " _Her_." I quickly amended, "I'm curious."

"Heh. _Curious_ , she says. Yer not the first. Kidlings 'ave been gawkin' at 'er all year. Gawkity gawkin' like squawkity hawks! Made up that rhyme meself. First, that boy with th' bad haircut...now you. If it were up to me no one would get in ten metres of 'er. Too many grubby hands grubbin' up th' stone!"

I wanted to tell the groundsman that he was the only one with grubby hands, but I kept quiet, hoping he'd tire of ranting and leave. Something he had said had gotten me thinking.

Instead of leaving however, the man took off his hat, revealing a bulbous bald crown glistening with sweat and waved it in front of him. He sighed.

"She's returned to us, yeh know."

My mouth fell open. I blinked at the groundsman as he remained fanning his face, eyes fixed on the statue. When I finally managed to find my voice, my words were low and hesitant.

"You've...heard about the Sentient Statue?"

As he leant forward to catch what I was saying, the groundsman furrowed his unibrow.

"Whuzzat? Sen _ti_ ent?" He shook his head, "Pah! Kidlings these days. Too many modern words. Too many skateboards! S'like they speak a diff'rent language." He pointed an accusatory finger at me, "Do you ride a skateboard!?"

"But what did you mean when you said-"

"Forget it. Maybe I saw what I did. Maybe I didn't. These eyes see 'bout as well as a snail in a fog bank sometimes. Most times. All times. Twasn't no statue I saw. Twas her in the flesh in blood. What's it mean? Bad omen? Good omen?" The man wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Mighty witchery is afoot."

I had no idea what the groundsman was talking about. I wanted to press him further, but wasn't sure how to go about it. He seemed like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at the slightest provocation.

"Was Hyacinth... I mean was she a real person?"

"Course. Old man Dreycott's daughter back when he ran the place. Back when..." The groundskeeper narrowed his eyes, "You are curious, aren't yeh? Curiosity curdled the kitten, yeh know. What's your name, kidling?"

"Amelia Ruth."

"Amos Crimp." The man stuck out his gloved hand for me to shake, but then thought better of it and pulled it back, wiping it on his overalls. "Watch yourself, Amelie. This school's gone a little helter-skelter. Something isn't right and I fear it's all startin' up again."

"What's starting up again?"

Mr. Crimp's eyes widened, his unibrow rising up in wide bushy arc.

"The feud." He whispered, " _The blood feud_. Heaven save us. They'll drag us all down with 'em. This whole school."

"Who are y-"

Mr. Crimp had already started to shuffle away across the lawn, his hat perched once more upon his head, muttering to himself as he threw me backwards glances. Despite his odd gait, he was quick and soon he had disappeared behind a stand of trees.

I remained still, wondering exactly how long Mr. Crimp had worked at Dreycott. And something he had said...I bent down near the base of the fountain and eyed the dense layer of lichen. Mr. Crimp had focused on this spot, as if he had been expecting to see something. I began to scrape the lichen away with my fingernails, pulling off small brittle pieces when I could, trying to feel the stone beneath. It was smooth, no, wait, one of my fingers brushed a raised bump. I continued to scrape until an "H" appeared, a "Y", then an "A". By the time I was finished, my nails were caked with greenish-yellow gunk and two worn words stood out from the stone.

HYACINTH DREYCOTT

Beneath the name were two dates, a dash linking them together. A birth and a death date, perhaps? I quickly calculated the difference between the years. Sixteen. If the fountain was a memorial of some sort, if the statue was a representation of a real girl named Hyacinth, then she would have been only sixteen-years-old when she died. Only three years older than I was now. It was a sad thing to ponder.

After gazing at the words for a moment, I opened my bag and took out a sheet of paper and a dull pencil. I placed the paper against the stone, then gently rubbed the pencil over the top. A faint tracing of the name and dates appeared on the paper. When it was clear enough to be read, I tucked it into my bag. Excellent. My first clue. At least, it was if Clive hadn't already discovered it. I didn't think so. The lichen had been very thick, as if it had been allowed to grow over the words for a great number of years.

I stood up and brushed off my hands. I had just enough time for a little bit of studying in the library. Then I would head to dinner with clues to shares and questions to ask. I set off across the lawn, feeling a sense of accomplishment even warmer than the sunshine.

My study time in the library passed quickly and before long I was in the dining hall, tray in hand, scanning the tables for Gemma or Clive. I found neither. Instead, I saw Bernard sitting by himself at a table in the far corner, surrounded by books. As I drew nearer, I saw that his chicken pot pie had barely been touched.

"Hello, Bernard."

Bernard looked up from a particularly thick book and blinked.

"Your friend was just here," he said in flat reply.

"Gemma? Where did she run off to?"

"Said something about rehearsals?" Bernard shrugged and returned to his book, "Honestly, I tune out most of what she says. She talks more than she breathes."

"Oh, that's right, it's Thursday night. Play rehearsals."

Much to her delight, Gemma had been given a supporting role in the school's latest theatrical production. I could never quite recall its name, but it had something to do with a village full of peasants who rebelled against their corrupt lord and his cronies. The irony.

I set my tray down across from Bernard, hoping he wouldn't mind. He looked rather engrossed, but without Gemma I wasn't sure where else to sit. I started eating, then set my fork down, wanting to ask Bernard another question, but feeling reluctant to bother him again.

"Have you seen Clive?" I finally managed.

Bernard rubbed his forehead, his eyes remaining on the minuscule print before him.

"He's always late to dinner. Probably in line right now."

I sat up straighter and scanned across the room, over to where a line of students snaked past the long counter. I thought I had just caught sight of him when my view was blocked by a group of patrollers striding towards our table. They were lead by a stocky boy with long, thick hair the color of cheddar. He grinned in my direction, revealing a row of braces that glinted brightly under the hall's lights.

"Erm, Bernard."

Bernard looked up in frustration, saw I was staring past him, and twisted around in his seat. His shoulders tensed as he cursed quietly under his breath.

"Brace yourself." he muttered, his face draining to chalk, as the group of patrollers reached our table. Immediately, two of them sat down on either side of Bernard, sandwiching him between them. One was the cheese-haired boy, whom I knew to be Felix Rimswald. I had never met him before, but what I had glimpsed from afar and heard from Gemma made me certain that I had no desire ever to do so. The other was Eric Hilberg, the boy who had been dubbed patroller at the beginning of the term. The rest of the patrollers crowded close behind them, looking down upon Bernard with smug smiles. The poor boy was trying his best to ignore the mob by focusing on his book. His darting eyes, desperate for a means of escape, gave him away.

"Hey, Bernie. Take a break from the books for a mo." Felix slammed Bernard's book shut, catching his fingers. Eric snickered.

"Oh, hello, Felix. I didn't see you there." Bernard said, discreetly cradling his injured fingers with his other hand. He was trying to keep his voice calm and level, but I could still hear a small quaver beneath his words.

"S'alright, mate. We just wanted to wish you well on trying out for Patrol. We had no idea you were so fond of us all." Felix's own words were friendly, but his eyes told a different story, one with a sting at the end.

"Why would you think that?" Bernard asked, stiff and indifferent, staring straight ahead, past me.

"If you want to be one of us than you must think pretty highly of us, isn't that right, Eric?"

"Sounds logical to me."

"You _do_ want to be one of us, don't you, Bernie?" Felix elbowed him in the ribs, "Finally tired of your sad hermit existence? Ready to swear off meals spent with your only friend Freud and actually have a real social life with real friends?" His tone had shifted to that of a condescending adult addressing a toddler.

Bernard set his jaw, remaining silent.

Felix put a hand over his chest.

"Warms my heart to hear it, mate. And if by some _freak_ accident of nature Rosen does pick you to be a widdle junior patroller, don't you worry about a thing. All of us will look after you. We'll be there to hold your hand, watching you _every_ second, of _every_ day, making sure you don't slip-up and make a git of yourself." Felix grinned, "After all, when you're part of the Patrol, your number one priority has to be the reputation of our esteemed body. So we'll be keeping a very close eye on you. Say one thing, take one misstep that would sully our good name and not only will we know about it, we'll make sure the entire school knows it as well." Felix patted his shoulder, "In other words, you won't last a week, Bernie." His pat turned into a tight squeeze that made Bernard cringe. "I'll make sure of it."

Releasing his grip, the patrollers started laughing as Bernard blanched even whiter, rubbing his shoulder. Up until that moment, I had merely been a silent spectator, but now I forced myself to speak.

"Leave him alone."

It was my turn to cringe. My voice had escaped much softer than I intended. Somehow, it still managed to attract Felix's attention. He looked over at me, raising his eyebrows as if noticing me for the very first time.

"Well, Bernie! You didn't tell us you had a girlfriend!"

"If I did, that would be one up on you, Felix." Bernard managed, forcing a small smile onto his lips. Eric masked a snort. Felix scowled and fixed his glare on me.

"You. You signed up for Patrol too, didn't you? And you can actually talk? Far as I knew everyone had you pegged as a mute. Either way, you're not really Patrol material are you?"

"I...I don't..." My words were stuck somewhere between my mind and my throat, trying to straddle the gap between the sharp retorts I wanted to fling and what I was actually capable of saying as everyone stared at me, waiting for my reply.

Felix nodded, satisfied.

"I rest my case. She can't even-"

 _Thunk!_

A tray slammed down on the table next to my own. All of our eyes immediately turned to the perpetrator. It was Clive. He sat down across from Felix.

"Mind if I join in?" he asked in an even voice.

Felix grinned.

"Oh, so these are _your_ friends, Dove? We were just congratulating them on their decision to try out for Patrol."

"Yes, I'm sure Rosen will be glad to know she might actually be getting some competent recruits." Clive shot back, "Especially two who remember to trim their hair on a regular basis."

Eric snorted again. Felix shook his head, his demented smile unwavering.

"You put them up to it, didn't you?" he said, "What are you playing at, Dove? Think having two of your friends on the Patrol's going to keep Rosen from giving your scrawny carcass the boot? Well, you'll have to try better than a bookworm and a pig-tailed mute if you want to break into _our_ ranks."

"If you think they don't stand a chance, then, ask yourself, why are you here, Felix? If you think Bernard and Amelia will never make it, why take the time to try and dissuade them with threats? Unless you _do_ think otherwise." Clive smiled his sharp smile, "Tell me, does the idea frighten you?"

Felix sneered.

"You think I'm scared of these two? It makes sense why you're so chummy with them. You have a lot in common." He was losing his composure, choosing his words less carefully, allowing himself to become ruffled. His glared at both me and Clive as he continued. "The lot of you are spineless, milk-sucking cowards. Yeah, I know about Bernard's little incident with the puppets. Think we pulled that stunt? I only wish. And pigtails here turned into a soppy little crybaby when Vivian tried confiscating her toy."

"Get out of here." Clive's voice was emotionless, his smile gone. Felix's grin widened. He had finally touched a nerve.

Eric looked uneasy.

"Felix, maybe-"

"Shut up." He continued glaring at Clive, "And what about you, Dove? What are you afraid of? Do your friends know? Because I do."

"I said leave."

"Don't worry. Your secret's safe...for now. It's touching, though. Dreycott's sorriest Patrol wannabes, friends with Dreycott's sorriest _orphan_."

A blur, a yelp, and then Clive had Felix by the knot of his tie. He yanked him across the table, sending cups and trays scattering, until the patroller was mere centimeters from his face. Clutching Felix's collar tighter, his right hand curled into a fist, his arm tensing, tightening back like a drawn bowstring, ready to spring forward.

"Go ahead, Dove." Felix choked. He managed a metallic grin, "You gonna pull an Andy Fisher on me?"

There was a moment of tense silence as the rest of the dining hall clattered on with its business. Our table was in the corner, with a bank of windows on one side and the cluster of stunned patrollers on the other, blocking anyone else from witnessing the unfolding drama. I looked around for an adult, a teacher, someone, to intervene. But dinner was ruled solely by the Patrol, with the exception of the kitchen staff who were currently nowhere to be seen.

"Do it." Felix rasped, his face turning red as Clive's grip grew increasingly tighter. His right arm shook with the strain of being held taut for so long.

"Clive." I broke in. I didn't know what I was doing, what I was saying, my mind was racing, had to do something, had to do something. I tried locking eyes with him, tried to see past the anger clouding his countenance, flashing in his eyes. "Don't."

Bernard was shaking his head at me, trying to tell me not to interfere, but I ignored him and reached over, placing a firm hand on Clive's shoulder. His muscles were rigid beneath my fingers, causing me to grip harder. He looked at me and for an instant his eyes betrayed a tumble of conflicting emotions. Fear and confusion, rage and pain, mingling into a storm that threatened to break loose at any second.

Then Clive blinked and drew in a long breath. His fist unfolded, his arm fell to his side, and he finally released his stranglehold. Felix collapsed onto the table, gasping, and was promptly pulled back into his seat by Eric, who was gaping at Clive.

"Get out of here." Clive's stood up from the table, glaring down at Felix, chest heaving.

Felix's fellow patrollers were surrounding him now, trying to ascertain he was okay, but he brushed them away as he stood up himself.

"One day, you're going to slip again, Dove." He pointed a thick finger across the table, his face blotchy, his long hair mussed. "And I'll be there to push you over the edge. Your precious Constance can't protect you forever."

With that his gang pulled him away, across the room, over to where the patrollers always sat. A few pupils at surrounding tables were now looking our way, undoubtedly wondering what they had missed.

Clive remained standing, breathing heavily while Bernard and I looked up at him, hardly daring to breath ourselves.

"Are you okay?" Bernard asked in a small voice.

Clive grabbed his tray, avoiding eye contact with us both.

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've lost my appetite." He started away from the table. We watched as he handed in his tray and disappeared out of the dining hall. Bernard and I finally looked at each other.

"He'll be alright." Bernard said, his eyes dazed, "Just give him some time." He cleared his throat, "I should, erm, probably get back to my studies."

"I don't feel very hungry either." I stood. "See you later." After handing in my own tray, I headed for the exit, keeping a wide berth between myself and the Patrol table. Once free of the hall, I stopped and looked about. Clive had disappeared. The corridor was empty. It was only then that I realized I was shaking.

Darcy had been right. I didn't know the Patrol. Not as well as I should have, at any rate. I just hadn't expected the backlash towards our decision to try out to be so extreme, so quick. And Clive...Felix's insult rattled through my head.

 _Orphan_.

It wasn't the word itself that surprised me or its implications. It was the way Felix had wielded it as a weapon, how effective it had been. Clive's reaction had been immediate, spontaneous, as if a dam somewhere inside of him had broken all at once, releasing a torrent of rage I had never even been aware he was holding back. He had acted so different from the cool and crafty boy I had first met. I had seen a bit of this other Clive last night, too, on the stairs, but this time his intensity filled me with dread instead of courage. What was it Felix had said, about Clive slipping? He had mentioned a name, too...

A piercing shriek broke through my thoughts. I stopped in the middle of the corridor, the blood draining from my face, running cold through my veins. For a moment silence prevailed, then the shrieking began again, mixed with sobs.

I started running. Whoever was screaming had to be fairly close. And I had a horrible feeling, however irrational, that Clive was somehow involved. Turning a corner, I nearly barreled into Trevor, but pushed him aside.

"Hey!" He cried, "No running in the corridors!"

By the sound of pounding feet coming from behind me, I could tell he was in pursuit, but I didn't care. Another scream, coming from just beyond a door to my right. I stopped just short of it, drawing in ragged breaths, too many ghastly scenarios dancing in my head. Steeling myself, I turned the knob and flung open the door.


	7. Chapter Seven

**The Story So Far...**

 _Following her decision to try out for the Dreycott Patrol, Amelia finds herself the center of attention at chess club, as well as a target of patroller Felix Rimswald. Clive's attempt to defend Amelia and Bernard nearly escalates into a fight, but Amelia is able to help defuse the situation. Heading back to her dorm for the night, she hears screaming and rushes to find the source, fearing Clive might somehow be involved..._

 **Chapter Seven**

When I was around five years old, my grandfather decided to quit his job in London and move to Luxenbelle to live with my family. He was no more than a stranger to me then, just another relative I saw during the holidays whom I only spoke to if prodded by my parents. I was not looking forward to him becoming a permanent part of our household. I was, however, excited about befriending his cat, Pangur. Being young and having never owned a pet before, the idea of a cat was quite novel to me. My father warned me that Pangur was an ancient and irritable beast who was not in the least fond of children, but I paid him no attention. I thought of Pangur and dreamt of Pangur and imagined the adventures we would have together, lonely girl and clever cat. When my grandfather finally arrived, I didn't waste a moment unlatching the door of Pangur's travel carrier and sticking my head in, only to receive a swift scratch across the nose in return.

I did not cry afterwards. I could only sit on the floor, listening to my parents and grandfather talk in the next room, feeling the warm trickle of blood curve down my cheek. In that one moment, everything I had imagined, all my gold-tinged fantasies, had been rent to pieces. Yes, the claws hurt, but it was the shock of discovering that reality contrasted so sharply with my assumptions that had left me cold and petrified.

So it was again when I burst through the door and stopped, blinking in the bright light, realizing how horribly, terribly, utterly wrong my assumptions had been. Petrified once more.

I was in the lecture theatre, which I had not set foot in since the welcoming assembly at the beginning of term, to the far left of the stage. Occupying the first several rows of tiered benches were around two dozen people, all staring at me. Four students were on the stage itself. Nearest to me was a boy on his back, arms and legs jutting out in outrageously dramatic angles. He, I was sure, had been the one screaming, but had stopped just as I had entered the room. Beside him were three girls who held flimsy wooden swords and spears aloft, as if they all had been about to run him through. One of them was Gemma.

"I'm sorry." I let out in a rush of air before anyone could react. I turned to leave, but Trevor was now leaning in the door frame, huffing and wheezing, gorilla shoulders heaving.

"What...do you think...you're going?" he gasped.

"Excuse me."

We both turned. A tall, lanky man had stood up from the front row and was now striding towards us. Gemma hopped down from the stage and quickly caught up to him, matching his pace.

"Is something the matter?"

"Amelia, are you alright?"

As they reached me I could see both of their brows were creased in concern.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-I thought-"

"She was running in the corridors. I was trying to stop her." Trevor said, as he pushed past me, "I-"

"Yes, that's quite enough from you, Mr. Boggs." The man said, "I would like to hear what the young lady has to say."

Trevor opened his mouth to speak, then appeared to reconsider and stepped aside, still trying to catch his breath. The man turned his attention on me. Judging by his graying hair and the creases lining his face, (noticeable, but not deep) he had to be in his late fifties or early sixties. His angular jaw, dash of a mustache, and sharp, but kind eyes gave the impression of a dignified gentleman. His attire, however, consisting of thick glasses, rumpled sweater, wrinkled trousers, and scuffed loafers, shouted starving artist louder than anything else. Was this the famed Antony Xander Gemma was always fawning over? He wasn't at all how I imagined him.

"I'm sorry." I said again. My pulse was slowing down, but now my fear was morphing into hot embarrassment. "I heard screaming and I thought someone might be hurt or something." I twisted my hands together as my eyes drifted to my shoes, "It wasn't real, though, was it?"

The man blinked, then his worried expression melted into a small smile. He gave a relieved chuckle as he passed a hand through his fluffy hair. Beside him, Gemma let out a breath she had been holding in.

"Sir?" Trevor asked.

"Forgive me. " The man's expression turned serious, "That must have been quite a shock, my dear. But it is, in fact, a very good sign." He turned to the boy on stage, "Henry, you're improving! This young lady here thought you were in genuine peril."

The rows of pupils who had been sitting rigid in their seats watching the four of us suddenly relaxed. Several of them giggled. The two girls on stage gave Henry slaps on the back as he stood and waved in our direction.

"Thanks, Prof!"

"I am so very sorry to have alarmed you, my dear." The professor said, casting apologetic eyes back on me. I blushed.

"Oh, no, it's fine. I'm-I'm just glad no one was actually in trouble."

"We were just rehearsing one of our play's most stirring scenes. Impassioned rebels finally achieving revenge on the ones who have oppressed them for so long. Finally taking back what's rightfully theirs." The man raised his right arm into the air, " _Fuenteovejuna lo hizo_!"

"Fuenteovejuna did it!" The rest of the pupils echoed.

"What on earth does _that_ mean?" Trevor asked, "It sounds vulgar."

Ignoring the suspicious patroller, the professor smiled and adjusted his glasses as he continued. "I've tried explaining to Rosen that a _lecture_ theatre is not of much use to us anymore, so why not convert it into a proper auditorium? We could begin with soundproofing these walls." The professor sighed, "But she's harder to pin down than a flea on a tackboard these days. Her patrollers, on the other hand..." He nodded at Trevor, who was starting to look very disgruntled, as his smile widened mischievously, "That's another matter."

The professor clapped his hands together.

"Speaking of which, out you go, Mr. Boggs. This young lady had very good reason for running through the corridors and so I don't want you giving her any more trouble." His tone was light, but behind his glasses his eyes had narrowed into hard steel.

Trevor straightened his sash. His cheeks were still ruddy from his brief sprint.

"Of course, Professor Xander." Giving me a final glare, he exited the room and hurried off down the corridor.

I took a small step backwards.

"I-I should leave, too."

The professor frowned.

"Are you sure you're alright, my dear? You look rather pale. Won't you sit down for a moment?"

"I wouldn't want to interrupt your practice."

"Nonsense." Professor Xander glanced at Gemma, "You are a friend of Gemma's, correct?"

"That's right." Gemma beamed, but her eyes were still searching my own.

"Well, any friend of Gemma's is certainly welcome here." Professor Xander clapped his hands again, "Miss Bijou a cup of tea for Miss...?" He tilted his head at me, eyebrows raised.

"Amelia Ruth. Just Amelia is fine."

"Please bring tea for Miss Just Amelia." Professor Xander winked at me. A petite, curvy woman with wrists that jingled with a glittering mass of charm bracelets stood up as she examined a clipboard.

"Sir, we're already twelve point five minutes behind schedule. Shouldn't we finish rehearsing the scene first?"

"Come, come, Miss Bijou. Time for a break." Xander rubbed his hands together, "Take five, everyone. Have some tea. Stretch your legs."

With a sigh, Miss Bijou set down her clipboard and scurried over to a table set near the stage, laden with a tea set and a large platter of biscuits. As she began pouring tea, the three pupils on stage stepped down and joined their fellow actors, laughing and chatting as they stood from their seats and surrounded the table.

"I'll be right back. Can't let the boys get all the good stuff."

Gemma hurried over to the table herself, while Professor Xander lead me to a seat in the front row. Reluctantly, I sat down.

"Did you say your last name was Ruth?" Professor Xander asked, sitting down on the edge of the stage.

"Yes, that's right."

"Please don't think this forward of me, but you wouldn't happen to be related to Abelard Ruth, would you?"

I smiled. I couldn't help it.

"He's my grandfather."

"Ah! Is he really? Imagine that!"

"You know Amelia's granddad, Prof?" Gemma asked as she walked back over, crunching a chocolate biscuit.

"Yes. We both taught at Gressenheller for a time. I was trying to get the theatre department back on its feet and he was a professor of philosophy. Forced me into a few chess games if I remember correctly. Pulverized me every time. Quite embarrassing, really." The professor laughed, "But then I came here and what, is he still at it?"

"No, he's retired now. He lives with us, my parents I mean, in Luxenbelle."

"Retired? Not ol' Lardie, surely."

"Well..." My voice trailed away feebly. Professor Xander had unwittingly touched upon a sensitive subject and I wasn't sure how to respond without opening doors that were far too private for small talk. The professor appeared to understand as he immediately changed the subject.

"Say, did he ever make Grandmaster?"

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Almost. He was so close, but he lost to Branson Ford."

"The Vitruvian Paradox Game, that's right. Now I remember. It was in all the papers."

"Ahem."

Miss Bijou held out a steaming cup of tea to me. She looked rather younger than I had guessed from afar, but I couldn't decide how young. Unlike Professor Xander, her clothing was chic and expensive. She wore a silk scarf and a coral blazer over a short dress that complimented her high-heels perfectly.

"Oh. Thank you."

I took the cup from her and she turned to go.

"Ah, Miss Bijou, one for me as well?" Professor Xander asked.

With a sigh, Miss Bijou clicked back over to the table. I took a sip of the tea. It had a wonderful flavor, the sharp, but cool mint blending perfectly with a more subtle, sweeter herb I couldn't quite identify.

"Heavenly, isn't it?" Xander folded his arms, "I always encourage my pupils to drink herbal tea during rehearsals. Gives the brain that big burst of creative energy it needs!"

As if to contest his words, a yawn suddenly escaped my mouth. Far from bouncing with energy, I felt sleepy and relaxed.

"I really should be going. I've got a lot of studying to do tonight."

"Of course. Of course." Professor Xander bobbed his head, "If you're sure. You're welcome to stay and watch the rest of the rehearsals, if you'd like."

"Professor Xander," Gemma said "Is it alright if I help Amelia back to the dorms?"

"Yes, that's probably a good idea. We've already gone through most of your scenes anyway."

"Thank you." I said again, "I'm so sorry for interrupting your practice."

"Think nothing of it, Amelia." Professor Xander reached out to shake my hand, "I don't think I ever properly introduced myself. Professor Xander, at your service. Head drama teacher and all that run around. You will come to see the show next term, won't you?"

"Of course." I smiled, "I wouldn't miss it."

With final waves, Gemma and I exited the theatre. When we were in the corridor, she turned to me, grasping my shoulders.

"Amelia, what's going on? You looked terrible when you burst in on us, it scared me half to death. Was Henry's screaming that bad? Or, erm, good, I mean? I thought it was a little over the top myself. Too high pitched for his role. He's supposed to-" Gemma cut herself off, "Sorry, your turn."

"It's been a long day," I admitted. I quickly told Gemma about the controversy at chess club, my brief encounter with Amos Crimp, and the drama in the dining hall.

"I left right after Clive did and that's when I heard the screaming," I finished as we neared the stairs to the dormitories, "I guess I was so on edge with what happened, I overreacted."

"Like Professor Xander said, don't worry about it. It's not a big deal." Gemma's smiled faded, "But that's some nasty business with Felix. He's even more of a creep than I thought. _Deserves_ to have his braces shoved to the back of his brain with a good punch."

"I know...but I didn't want Clive getting in trouble. And...he reacted so fast. It scared me, really. It was a bad situation all around."

"Sounds like Felix knows how to press Clive's buttons, that's for sure."

"Did you know Clive was an-" I lowered my voice, "An orphan?" I didn't like using the word, it sounded almost derogatory after Felix's rant.

"No. But then again, I never did know too much about him, other than his stellar reputation."

"So you don't know anything about a Constance?"

Gemma shook her head.

By then we had climbed the stairs and reached the dorms.

"So...what now?" she asked.

I stopped and sighed. What I wanted was to burrow under my covers and wholly give myself over to sleep. I was feeling better now. Miss Bijou's tea had soothed my nerves, making my eyelids heavy and my mind slightly fuzzy. But the patrol exam was only a few weeks away. I needed to devote every minute of free time to study.

I tried not to look too miserable as I finally answered Gemma.

"Time to dig out my handbook."

The next few weeks passed quickly. During this time, Dreycott's mysteries faded into the background as my classes took up most of my attention and energy, alongside my additional studying for the exam. The school handbook was fairly thick and I, being unsure of what in particular to focus on, was left with no choice but to read it page by page, copying down any fact or rule that seemed especially significant and running through it a thousands times in my head. It was deadly dull work, but I kept reminding myself that this was the easy part. Much harder hurdles were to come.

I did not see much of Bernard or Clive during this time. They were both busy with their own schoolwork and the incident in the dining hall seemed to have made all three of us more withdrawn towards one another. My renewed focus on school and the absence of Clive and his puzzles made the term feel much as it had at the beginning of the year, before the fateful chess game in the library. Apart from my studies, I kept up with my regular habits. I sat with Gemma at lunch, participated in chess club, wrote to my parents and granddad, and tried avoiding the Patrol whenever possible. The only difference now was that I knew there was more going on at Dreycott, something moving behind the scenes. With this in mind, I kept one eye on the school's dark corners and one ear on the trickle of rumors that passed to me from Gemma. There were no sightings of the Sentient Statue nor any other odd incidences to report as a rainy October slipped into an unseasonably cool November. I spent my half-term break at Dreycott, remaining mostly in my room, trying to stave off the old building's growing draftiness as I pressed on in my studies.

After break ended, I woke up early one Saturday, the first week of a December that promised to be as fickle as its predecessor, and realized the day of the exam had finally arrived.

I was surprised to find Gemma already up eating breakfast in the dining hall with Clive and Bernard.

"There you are," she said, her mouth full of egg. She swallowed, then practically sang her next words, "Today's the big daaa-aay!"

She gave me an wide-mouthed grin and clapped her hands, reminding me of a desperately happy child I once saw watching clowns at the circus. She was her usual chipper self, humming with energy and enthusiasm, which helped to somewhat soothe the butterflies that were started to awaken in my stomach. Bernard, on the other hand, looked like he was doing his best impression of a cadaver. He was pushing a pile of eggs around his plate with his fork while with a sort of glassy glare he burned holes into the salt and pepper shakers. He had blinked when Gemma spoke and now he looked up at me.

"Good morning, Amelia." he said, stiff but civil.

"Hello, Bernard."

I sat down next to Gemma, across from Clive, who had been scribbling something in his notebook. When he saw me, he flipped it shut and gave me a brief nod.

"Amelia. How are you?" He wouldn't quite meet my eye.

"Good. Good enough to quote several paragraphs from the school handbook, if you'd like."

I tried offering him a smile, but he had become focused on his breakfast.

Gemma slapped my back.

"That's the spirit, matey! What about you, Trewinkle? Head gonna pop off your neck with all that sweet, succulent knowledge?"

As she spoke she reached across the table and rubbed the top of his head. She seemed like she was trying to be extra exuberant to make up for the rest of us. I couldn't blame her, we would have been quite the awkward, gloomy bunch otherwise.

Bernard slapped Gemma's hand away, giving her a withering look. Conversation evaporated into the clinking of forks as we all followed Clive's lead. All except Gemma. She was making a face I had seen many times before, a sort of scrunched, furious expression that told me she was madly thinking of something to say. I was afraid she might make matters worse by spitting out something outrageous or inappropriate, which often happened when she was trying to reignite a conversation. I cleared my throat before she could speak up.

"I haven't had a chance to show either of you this." I reached down into my bag and pulled out my crumpled fountain rubbing.

"Oh, yeah!" Gemma said, her face unscrunching.

I handed it to Clive who studied it briefly and then slid it over to Bernard.

"What is it?" he asked.

I told the two boys what I had told Gemma about my brief conversation with Amos and the discovery of the engraving. For the first time that morning, Clive looked engaged.

"I never even thought of scraping away the lichen. Good work, Amelia." He took the paper back from Bernard.

"Hyacinth Dreycott." He rubbed his chin, "While the two of you are taking the exam, I'll do some research in the library. See if I can dig up anything on the name."

"I know I've seen a portrait of a Sidney Dreycott somewhere around here before. And Amos mentioned an Old Man Dreycott who used to run the school."

Clive nodded.

"Yes, the Dreycotts were the original owners of the school. Unfortunately, they were a very private family and so I've yet to come across too much about them. I do know that Sidney Dreycott was headmaster around the same time Hyacinth lived."

"You think he was the old man Amos was talking about?" Gemma asked, "Hyacinth was his daughter?"

"Most likely." Clive said.

"What of this blood feud Amos mentioned?" Bernard was frowning, his thick eyebrows low over his eyes like storm clouds.

"What is a blood feud anyway?" I asked, "It sounds...I don't know...violent?"

"Long-standing hostilities between two families." Clive answered,"Think of the Capulets and Montagues."

"Oooh, _Shakespearean intrigue_. You think the Dreycotts were involved?" Gemma asked.

"It's possible," Clive replied, "But we need more to go on. I'd like to try and talk with Amos. He's worked here longer than anyone, you know."

I had to laugh.

"Good luck with that. I don't know if he likes you. He's very protective of the fountain and I think he's noticed you hanging about."

"I'll think of something." Clive said. It was a relief to see him looking and sounding like his usual self.

"What I'm most curious about is what Amos meant when he said Hyacinth had returned." Gemma was running her hands through her thick hair, "He _must_ know about the Sentient Statue."

"But he said he saw her in the flesh and blood. In fact, he acted very confused when I asked him about the statue." I replied, then hesitated, "Maybe we shouldn't put too much stock in what he said. I mean, what if he's...a little crazy?"

"Crazy or no, he's a potential lead." Clive smiled, "I'll take what I can get."

Bernard glanced at the large clock hanging over the entryway.

"Oh, look. We're already late."

The four of us turned in our trays and headed for the classroom where the exam was to be a held. When we arrived, there was already a decent sized cluster of students standing about, waiting. I recognized a few. Near the window was Stewart, Vivian's faithful lackey I had met my first night. When he saw us enter, he waved, which I found to be a bit odd. At the front of the room, an older woman with pouty lips and a lace collar sat at a desk as she clacked away on a ancient typewriter, a stack of booklets towering beside her.

"Well, this is it." Gemma was clapping again, a small rapid clap like she was trying to channel all of her nervous energy into her hands, "Did you both bring a pencil?"

"Yes, mum." Bernard grumbled, hunkering down in a nearby seat, "You can _go_ now."

"Good luck, mate." Clive said, ruffling Bernard's short chestnut hair.

Bernard hunched his shoulders, withdrawing his head like a turtle.

"Gee, thanks, _dad_." He folded his arms, "Why does everyone feel the need to touch my head today?"

"Because you're our darling boy." Gemma crooned as she tried patting his head.

As Bernard dodged Gemma's hand, Clive turned to me.

"Thanks, again, for going through with this. I know it's, er, it's not something you'd normally consider doing." Clive fiddled with the knot of his tie, "I hope I didn't pressure you?"

"No. You're right, of course. I wasn't keen on the idea at first, but I _do_ want to help you figure out what's going on. And if this is what it takes." I shrugged.

Clive gave me a smile, but it quickly faded into a troubled frown.

"Listen, about what happened with-"

" _Children_." The woman at the desk had finally stood up. She sniffed loudly. "Take your seats." Her voice was both nasal and raspy, a combination that made me cringe.

"Good luck!" Gemma whispered as she made for the door, giving us thumbs up.

"Good luck, Amelia." Clive said and then he was gone, too.

The woman nodded as everyone found a seat and quieted down.

"Right. Looks like we're all here." She picked up the stack of booklets and dropped several on the desk of a pupil at the start of the first row, "Please take one and pass it to the person on your right. No peeking. If you do you will be _immediately_ disqualified!" She continued down the line. I took a test and passed the last one on to Bernard. The cover was blank save for a silver crest that I had glimpsed a few other places around the school. It featured a delicate spider spanning a shield. Near the bottom, curling around the spider's two front legs were the words: _Praeteritum est, non tacet._

The woman had, by this time, returned to the front of the room. She sniffed again, her wrinkled hand clasped in front of her chest.

"Good morning, children. I am Mrs. Brickle, secretary to Professor Rosen and your invigilator for this exam." Mrs. Brickle reached down, plucked a single remaining booklet off of her desk, and held it up for all of us to see. "This exam was specially designed by Headmistress Rosen to help her choose those pupils who will best serve this school and its needs." Setting down the booklet, she picked up a watch on a silver chain, "You will be given approximately thirty minutes to take the exam. Remember, read _all_ of the instructions in your booklet before you begin. Only those exams that correctly complete the instructions will qualify." She sniffed, "Is everyone ready? Does anyone need to use the facilities?" She paused as one boy in the front row coughed, "Good. Then you may begin." She sat down with her watch as twenty exam booklets flew open.

I took a deep breath and folded my own cover back. The bold print at the top of the page read:

 **Choose the correct answer to the question out of the choices provided.**

Multiple choice. This should be easy enough. I carefully read the first question.

 _1\. According to Chapter 8, Section IV, of the handbook, all pupils caught plagarizing another's work, using unauthorized exam study supplements and/or resources, or carrying out any of the other fraudulent activities listed in Section III, will immediately receive a failing mark in the assignment or exam in question. Out of the following choices, which statute will allow the failing grade to be revoked under certain circumstances and what is the proper procedure the pupil must follow in order to receive the revocation?_

 _a. Statute 9, which states that pupils must write a 750 word essay explaining the moral implications of their actions as well as future goals they plan to implement to ensure that further violations will not occur._

 _b. Statute 56, which states that pupils must be given an alternate exam and/or assignment and complete it in the time allotted by the teacher under the supervision of a patroller._

 _c. Statute 9 or 56 may both be used, as long as the pupil is being charged for a first offense and has not been previously been caught violating Section IV._

 _d. There is no specific statue that covers this particular violation, instead cases are decided on an individual basis according to the circumstances surrounding the incidence. In some cases, board approval may be necessary._

I pushed back my bangs, feeling a stab of panic rising in my chest. This was much more comprehensive than I had expected. I quickly flipped through the next few pages. The questions only continued to grow longer and more detailed. How was I ever going to complete even a third of the exam in time? I snuck a quick peek over at Bernard. He was staring at the first page with a look of abject despondence, his pencil frozen above the first question.

I turned back to my own test. _Just take it one at a time_ , I told myself _, better to get a few right for certain than to rush and get most wrong_.

I read through the first question again, then a third time. A fourth. Bits of facts and rules and codes were floating through my head. Everything I had studied the last few weeks seemed to have fragmented into useless scraps of half-remembered information. Chapter 8...Chapter 8...what do you remember about Chapter 8...statute 9...that was...wait...was the answer B? I seemed to recall something about completing an essay if one was caught cheating. I filled in the second circle. One down. Why would a patroller ever need to know all of this information anyway? I tugged at my hair. Don't. Lose. Focus.

I continued on to the second question. Like the first it was worded in a dry, technical manner that forced me to slow down and read through it several times before I finally understood what it was asking. I had just completed the multiple choice section when Mrs. Brickle called out, "Fifteen minutes left."

What? Already? The panic returned. In desperation, I started flipping through the exam. Maybe the next sections would be easier. The second section had a number of short answer questions, but they looked even more difficult than the multiple choice. And then a 500 word essay? With still more to come after that. The panic inside of me turned into a heavy sinking. There was no way I could even begin to complete it all in time. My long hours of studying the handbook had paid off and I was certain I had gotten most of the multiple choice questions right. In fact, I was certain I could pass the other sections as well... if I had several spacious hours to do so. As it stood, I would be lucky if I got one or two of the short answer questions filled in before time was up.

Another glance at Bernard revealed he was still in the middle of the multiple choice section. We were done for. How did Rosen ever expect anyone to complete the exam? No amount of studying could ever make up for such a brief space of time. There was something...something off about the whole thing. I flipped through the thick booklet again. What had Mrs. Brickle said? In order to pass, one had to complete the entire test, right? I tried remembering the secretary's exact words.

 _"Remember, read_ all _of the instructions in your booklet before you begin. Only those exams that correctly complete the instructions will qualify."_

Read all of the instructions...well, I hadn't really done that, but what did it matter? I quickly read through the instructions for the short answer questions, then the essay, then the final two sections. I shook my head. What was I doing? I was wasting precious time. But then, under the last section of the test, at the very bottom of the page, I saw it.

 _1\. Do not complete any of the preceding sections. Close your booklet, write your name on the cover, and look up._

I blinked and read through the words again. Relief poured into me. This was it then. What mattered wasn't answering the questions at all, but simply following the instructions, both Mrs. Brickle's initial ones and the exam's own.

Quickly, I went back and erased all of my answers in the multiple choice section. I felt a little odd doing so, after all the time I had put into completing the questions, but the instructions were clear. Closing the booklet, I wrote my name in the upper right corner, folded my hands, and looked up.

Almost everyone around me was still bent over their booklets, either desperately scribbling or else staring into space. One boy was actually crying. A few other students were sitting as I was, hands folded, looking quite pleased. Mrs. Brickle immediately caught my eye. She gave a barely perceptible nod of her head.

The few remaining minutes passed and then the secretary rose from her seat.

" _Time_. Please pass your exams to the person on your left and I will come and retrieve them."

We did as we were told. After I'd passed in our exams, Bernard turned to me, rubbing his forehead.

"Well, that was fun." he whispered, "You'd have to be a lawyer to answer some of those questions."

"I know." I leaned in, "But there was-"

"Alright." Mrs. Brickle strode to the front of the room with the stack of exams. With a _whumph_ , she set them on the corner of the desk, "When I call your name, please stand up."

Plucking the first exam off the top of the pile, she flipped it open to the first page and then glanced up.

"Thomas Finch."

A boy near the front stood up.

"Allen Paine."

"Elsie Grimmore."

"Amelia Ruth."

I stood up as Bernard blinked at me in surprise. Mrs. Brickle rattled off several more names.

"There we go. Those who are standing please remain in the room. The rest of you are dismissed. I'm sorry to inform you that you will not be continuing on in the selection process."

There was a quiet, collective groan. Bernard blinked at me again as he stood up to go, newfound respect shining in his eyes.

"You did it, Amelia." It felt like a statement and a question rolled into one.

"I'll explain to you how later. Sorry you didn't make it."

Bernard waved a dismissive hand.

"Believe me, it's a relief. Just don't tell Clive I said that."

He and the rest of the pupils who failed the exam filed out of the room, including Stewart who looked positively miserable, leaving eight of us still standing. We traded wary glances with each other as Mrs. Brickle worked her typewriter.

"Does this mean we get to move on to the interview?" Thomas asked after we had been standing for several minutes.

"Not quite." Mrs. Brickle finally looked up, "You were all quite clever to solve the puzzle of the exam, but there is yet another puzzle you must pass before Rosen will see you."

"Another puzzle?

Murmurs bounced around the room. This was unexpected. Darcy had never mentioned a second puzzle. Then again, she hadn't mentioned a first puzzle either. Were they merely a recent addition or had Darcy been holding out on me?

"Yes. Now, if you would all line up at the door, calm and orderly, we'll be on our way."

We did as we were told. Mrs. Brickle led us out of the classroom, down the hall, and up several flights of stairs until we reached the neglected fourth floor. From the whispers coming from in front and behind me, it was apparent that several of my classmates had never ventured this far up before. I liked the fourth floor much better now then I had when Gemma and I had passed through it that stormy night back in October. It still was bare and eerily quiet, but now the late morning sunlight forced its way through the grimy windows, splashing white bands across the floor. These we crossed until we stood before a door at the end of the hallway. Mrs. Brickle turned to face us. She gave an obligatory sniff.

"Listen carefully now. Your second challenge lies beyond this door. Inside is a room with a most peculiar cabinet. Your task will be to find a way to open this cabinet."

"Open a cabinet?" one girl asked, "What does that have to do with being a patroller?"

"Quiet, please. I assure you that Professor Rosen knows what she is doing. Now, as I was saying, each of you will be allowed to enter the room one at a time. You will each be given fifteen minutes to try and open the cabinet. A patroller, Miss Lily, will keep an eye on you while you are in the room and give you a clue. So as to be completely fair, all of you will receive the exact same clue, so never fear on that matter. Any questions?"

We were all silent, still somewhat stunned by this sudden twist.

"I'll take that as a no. Mr. Finch, you are the first to enter."

Thomas stepped up to the door.

"I'm ready." he said, his voice confident.

Mrs. Brickle turned the knob and as the door swung open, I caught a glimpse of some sort of elegant sitting room. Thomas slipped inside and the door was shut behind him.

Fifteen minutes passed. The rest of us stood outside the door, a few people whispering to one another, others, like me, lost in thought. I wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation. Why would Rosen want patrollers who could solve puzzles, instead of ones who knew the rules and how to enforce them? The current batch of patrollers definitely seemed more like enforcers than puzzles-solvers, anyway. Vivian swore by the handbook and Trevor had committed hundreds of rules to memory. More than anything, I was curious to meet Rosen for myself. On stage she had appeared dignified, but cold, too. Distant. Not at all the sort of person who would turn a rote exam into an exercise of wit.

Finally, the door creaked open and Lily, the patroller, poked her head out. She whispered something to Mrs. Brickle who nodded and then turned to us, "Allen Paine, you are next."

"What about Thomas?" Allen asked, looking like he was going to be sick, "Where did he go?"

"Nevermind that. Do you wish to proceed or not, Mr. Paine?" Mrs. Brickle's lips were especially pouty.

Swallowing, Allen stepped up to the door and was promptly ushered inside. Like Thomas, he never exited the room, at least not through the door we were standing outside of.

Elsie Grimmore was next. Then it was my turn.

"Amelia Ruth."

I stepped up to the door. That no one who had entered thus far had come back was a bit unnerving, but I couldn't help but feel that it was all part of the challenge, that we were meant to feel a bit bewildered and frightened. I tried to keep my mind clear and focused as Mrs. Brickle opened the door.

"Good luck." she said and then I stepped into the room. It was indeed a sitting room, but one not so elegant as I had first thought. The sofas were threadbare. The curtains sagged from the room's one window, letting in a faint stream of light that illuminated myriads of dust motes. The carpets on the floor were faded and stained. Cobwebs spanned ever corner.

Strangest of all were the keys. They were everywhere. Piles of them on the floor, the low coffee table, the windowsill. Open drawers and bookshelves stuffed full of them. Past a piano stood a wide cabinet, made of wood that gleamed darkly. Without thinking, I walked across the room and tried the cabinet's handle.

"It's locked, dum-dum."

I turned to see Lily sitting slouched on one of the sofas, her feet up on the coffee table, gnawing the edge of an enormous lollipop. As far as patrollers went, Lily wasn't the worst, but there was just something a little unnerving about her. She was porcelain white and painfully thin with wide eyes and long dark hair that fanned out around her bony shoulders. Her smile was just a bit too wide. It made you fear her face might crack.

"You want your clue or not?"

"Erm, yes?"

Lily held up a square of stiff white paper between two gaunt fingers. I walked back across the room and took it from her, quickly turning my back to read it. Written on neat script was this:

 _I, a single key somewhere in this room, will allow you to open the cabinet. Beware. There are 51 other keys that are shaped exactly like me, yet only I possess the power to unlock. How to tell the different between myself and the others without trying each key? Simple. In the middle,_ see _the white answer._

"Fifteen minutes." Lily said pointing over to a grandfather clock that was ticking steadily. I swallowed as my eyes once more took in all of the room's keys. Trying them at random would do me no good, of course. The clue was my key, as it were, to finding the correct one. I started to walk about, my eyes fixed on the white paper. Having Lily in the room made me feel a little self-conscious, but I tried my best to ignore her and the sugary scent of her lollipop.

According to the clue, there were 52 keys somewhere in the room that looked the same. Out of these keys was one that would open the door. I decided to start by looking for keys that were similar. The clue also said something about a white answer. Was the key white in color? I wasn't sure what "in the middle" could mean.

Choosing a nearby bookshelf, I started rifling through the keys. There were long ones, short ones, bronzes ones, silver ones, car keys, skeleton keys, keys studded with jewels, keys with jagged teeth, and others with teeth worn to nubs with age. I managed to find several painted white, some with fresh coats and other chipped to piebald, but none of them matched. I moved on to a pile of keys heaped in a bowl like fruit. These too were all completely unique from one another. Searching a few more places revealed the same dilemma.

I looked at the clue again. Like the exam, there seemed not enough time to complete the given task. So maybe there was a simpler solution? The clue focused on the fact that there wasn't enough time to try all 52 identical keys, but my problem was I could not find even two keys that looked alike. The clue made no mention of how all 52 keys were to be found. There was an assumption there. It was as if the clue presupposed finding the 52 keys would be simple.

And why 52? Was their some significance to the number? The last part could prove to be the deciding factor, but it was also the most vague.

 _In the middle,_ see _the white answer._

Was it referring to the middle of the room? I went and stood in what was roughly the center of the room, turning in a slow circle. Nothing.

And _white answer_. I had found a few white keys, but none of them matched. I turned about again, scanning the room, and my eyes alighted upon the piano. Of course!

Walking over to the instrument, I gently ran my hand over the keyboard. Fifty-two white keys, all present and accounted for. Now I just needed to find the right one.

 _In the middle,_ see _the white answer._

Something about that sentence tugged at me. The way it was worded...

I thought back to an incident that had occurred when I was ten, after one of our neighbors had begun offering weekly piano lessons. My dear mother, thinking it might be a good idea to expand my range of interests beyond chess, signed me up, even though (then as now) I possessed less musical talent than a whistling tea kettle. It only took one lesson to prove to old Mrs. Halifax that this was so. The distinct moves of each chess piece I could memorize with ease and the strategies of my opponents I could learn by heart, but musical notes, chords, metres and all the other secrets to making ones ears' tingle with pleasure were only reams of chicken-scratch parading before my bleary eyes. There was, however, one piece of knowledge that had stuck with me from that ill-fated lesson. Something Mrs. Halifax said over and over as she tried to wring "Mary Had a Little Lamb" out of my clumsy fingers.

"Find Middle C, chickadee. Always start at Middle C."

"Five minutes left." Lily said, pulling me out of the memory and back into the dingy sitting room.

Letting out a long, even breath to keep myself from rushing, I examined the keyboard again, carefully sorting through the gleaming white bars in my head until I found the one I was looking for.

I reached down and pressed Middle C.

At first, nothing happened and I was afraid I had hit another dead end. But then the cabinet in front of me gave a small creak as the door popped open a crack.

"Finally," Lily said. I jumped, then spun around. She was standing right behind me. "You're the first one to get it right. Guess we might be working together soon, dum-dum."

Smiling, she bit down on her lollipop. It cracked between her teeth.


	8. Chapter Eight

**The Story So Far...**

 _A few weeks after meeting the drama teacher Professor Xander and his assistant, Elle Bijou, Amelia and Bernard finally take the Patrol exam. While Bernard fails to pass the first part, Amelia successfully completes both of the exam's puzzles, bringing her and her friends one step closer to solving Dreycott's myriad of mysteries..._

 **Chapter Eight**

With a dramatic sigh, Gemma flung herself backwards across my bed, tossing her stack of note-cards into the air. They fluttered down on top of her like over-sized snowflakes as she clasped a limp hand to her forehead.

"Here lies Gemma. She perished drowning in a tempestuous sea of third-declension adjectives. Dragged to the briny depths by the bilious tentacles of the hideous intransitive verbs."

Gemma clutched at her throat, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth, her eyes rolling about their sockets.

"Ach! Egch! This is the end! Depart from mine vision cruel world!"

Her voice rose to a sobbing crescendo then her whole body went limp. I folded my arms and pressed my lips together, trying to keep my expression serious.

"Do you _have_ to die on my bed?"

Sweeping the note-cards off of herself, Gemma rolled off the bed and onto the floor, taking my pillows and blankets with her.

"Here lies Gemma. She died on the floor. As requested by her dear friend."

I allowed myself a chuckle.

"Save it for the stage, will you?"

Staring up at the ceiling, Gemma spread her arms above her in a wide arc.

"All the world's a stage...baby."

She closed her eyes, letting her arms drop to the floor.

"You know, the Olympians sometimes turned girls into trees and flowers to save them from, like, lovesick satyrs and other horrible stuff. Don't you think it would be fun to be a bush? Or a laurel?"

"Er..."

"Don't answer that. I'm just talking stupid. Stupid talk. That's all that's left in my brain now. A mashed bowl of stupid."

"Why don't you call it a night?"

Gemma sat up, pushing her long dark hair behind her ear. Her glasses hung crookedly across her cheek.

" _Pffft_ , I wish."

"...Me too."

I turned back around in my seat, gazing at the desperate clutter of final exams that was heaped across my desk: stubby pencils, textbooks, pages of notes, dog-eared study guides, and other scraps and ends that had accumulated over the past few weeks.

Outside the wind rattled the tall hawthorn growing near my window. Its branches sporadically tapped at the glass, as if it was pleading to be let inside out of the chilly December night. Not that there would have been any room for it. The dorms at Dreycott could hold two people only somewhat comfortably, three was pushing it (rather frustrating considering how expansive the rest of the place was). The good news was that everyone was allowed their own room, which was perfect for someone like me who needed daily moments of solitude and privacy in order to function properly. The bad news was that inviting a friend in to study or talk inevitably resulted in cramped quarters. While I had remained at my desk, Gemma had taken over my bed, spreading her books, papers, and pencil shavings across almost every centimeter of my coverlet. We could have chose to study in the Red Room, a study hall open to both boys and girls, or our own common room, but it was getting close to curfew (an hour later than usual because of exams) and both places tended to be popular study spots.

"I guess I really can't complain." Gemma said, sounding thoughtful, "Knowing what you have to go through tomorrow."

I twisted a pencil between my fingers, silent. Final exams were all of next week and then the term would finally give way to the Christmas holidays, when I'd get to go home for two whole weeks. Before all of that could take place, there was a certain bridge I had to cross tomorrow, one that, even now, I wasn't sure would hold my weight.

This bridge, of course, was my interview with Professor Rosen. I had been counting down the days to it ever since that Saturday in early December when I had successfully completed the patrol exam. After solving the puzzle in the dingy sitting room, I discovered the cabinet was in fact a short passageway that let out to a hallway intersecting the one where Mrs. Brickle and the remaining patrol hopefuls still stood, waiting outside the door. Lily lead me through the passageway and then gave me a folded sheet of paper with the school emblem stamped across the front.

"This is your pass to see Professor Rosen." she told me, "You're interview is scheduled for the date on the paper. Leave using those stairs over there, so no one sees you."

After pointing to the stairs on my right, Lily slipped back into the passage, shutting the door behind her. I was left alone in the middle of the corridor, staring at the spider emblem on my pass, bewilderment and relief working together to make my head light and my hands tremble as they clutched the paper. I had actually done it. I'd passed the exam. Yet as I made my way back downstairs that day, it wasn't long before a vague dread extinguished all my other emotions. The test was only half done. I still had to face the Patrol's leader, an enigmatic woman I had only ever seen once. I wasn't sure what to think about the headmistress and for some reason this only made me worry more.

"Are you nervous?" Gemma asked, breaking into my thoughts.

Before I could reply, a muffled high-pitched scream penetrated the room.

Gemma and I were instantly on our feet.

"Not again." I said, opening the door. I peered out. The dormitory hallway was empty, most of the doors shut.

"I don't think it's Henry this time." Gemma said, pushing up beside me to look out.

" _Aieeeeeeeeeeeeee_!"

I hurried out into the hallway, trying to pinpoint the sound's location. It was coming from my left, across the hallway, a few doors down. I followed it and knocked on what I thought was the right door, Gemma close behind me.

"Come in, quick!" said a frantic voice.

I flung open the door. Two girls, Harper and Madge, were each balanced on top of different pieces of furniture. Harper stood on the desk chair, while Madge had somehow managed to climb the bed's headboard. Her feet gripped its top edge as she used her hands to press up against the ceiling, trying to keep her balance. Both girls were staring at something on the rug in the middle of the room.

"It's coming towards you, Harp." Madge said, trying to point with her chin.

"Ew. Ewewewew." Harper gingerly plucked a book up from the desk by the corner of its front cover and flung it down onto the rug.

"You missed."

"What is it?" I asked. I didn't want to go any further into the room yet, so I merely squinted at the floor, trying to locate whatever they were fixated upon. Gemma was pressed up against my back, looking over my head.

"Spider." Madge said. Squeezing her eyes shut, she swung her right foot forward, kicking a fluffy hamster pillow off the bed.

"Not my favorite pillow!" Harper shrieked.

"Sorry!"

Rolling my eyes, I stepped past the threshold and saw a rather large spider making its way across the edge of the rug. It was a beautiful specimen, like none I'd ever seen before, with an almost metallic body and legs that glinted under the room's bright light fixture.

Both Madge and Harper had froze when I entered the room, Madge's leg still hovering in the air. I looked about, my eyes finally alighting on a small, clear vase filled with fake flowers sitting on the windowsill. I dumped it out, grabbed a thin book off the desk, and carefully scooped up the spider under the vase, trapping it.

"What are you doing? Kill it, kill it, kill it." Harper said, rattling the back of the chair.

"Come down now." I said, "I'm not going to kill it. I'll let it outside."

Madge and Harper finally stepped down from the headboard and chair.

"What? So it can just crawl back into my room again and stare at me while I sleep with its gazillion beady eyes?" Harper shuddered, then frowned, looking past me. I turned to see Gemma still peeking in the doorway.

"Oh. It's you." Harper said, her tone suddenly unreadable. She and Madge turned from Gemma to the spider, then to each other. Something unspoken seemed to pass between them. Madge dipped her head, raising her eyebrows while Harper's eyes grew round.

"Thanks for getting it for us, Amelia." Madge said, turning to me, her alligator earrings swinging. She glanced quickly at Gemma, then back to me again, "Good luck with your interview tomorrow."

Harper was already picking the tossed items off of the floor.

"Right...I'll just take care of this."

Gemma moved out of the way as I stepped from room, the door clicking shut behind me.

"What was that about?" I asked her. She was frowning at the floor, her face a shade paler than normal.

"What? Oh, nothing. You don't need help with that, do you? I need to go over my vocabulary again."

"No, I should be fine." I held the vase up, "Did you see it, it's really-"

"I don't want to see it." Gemma snapped. She paused, detecting my confusion, then repeated in a quieter tone, "I don't want to see it." She rubbed her forehead, "I'm sorry, I have a headache again."

Gemma shuffled back down the hallway without another word and disappeared into my room. I remained still, one hand on top of the upturned vase, the other pressed against the bottom of the book, a cold sickness clinging to my stomach and climbing up into my chest.

There it was again, that wall that always went up between Gemma and other pupils, as if she was the spider under the glass, something to be stared at from a distance with unease and distaste. I wanted to beat on Harper's door, to demand to know why, _why_ , when there seemed no good reason for how they treated her.

Maybe if I was a different sort of person I would have. As it stood, I turned and started out of the hallway to the stairs.

True, Gemma could get annoying at times, maybe a little loud, a little brash, a little too gossipy. But would that really cause most of the school to frown nervously and look the other way when she passed them in the hallway? I wracked my brain, trying to think of something, anything, about Gemma that would upset people, but I couldn't. There had to be something I wasn't aware of, something I didn't know about. Had Gemma done something... _bad_ her first year at Dreycott? The only thing I could think of was the story she told me of how she had spilt gravy all over Vivian's uniform, but most people would probably congratulate her for pulling off a stunt like that.

I reluctantly let go of my long banner of questions as I slipped out the side entrance at the bottom of the stairs and pulled in a breath of crisp night air, trying to wash out the clamminess. Dreycott's vast lawn sprawled before me, shrouded in gloom. There were a few far-flung lamp posts that provided dim patches of light along the path through the trees, several flickering, as well as the surrounding lights of London, which formed a glittering haze that concealed most of the stars. The moon was bright enough to remain visible, a thin curved sickle hanging low above the trees. Or maybe it was more of a ghostly grin.

Late traffic made my ears tingle. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. Beneath these sounds was the wind, low, but threatening, upsetting branches, herding leaves across the path. I started forward.

"Alright, Mr. Spider, let's find a good home for you."

I honestly had no great love for spiders, but my mother hated them with a violent intensity she rarely revealed in other aspects of her life. My grandfather, on the other hand, told me spiders were misunderstood. In many cultures, they symbolized patience on account of the time and effort they put into spinning their intricate webs and waiting for their prey to become ensnared. This was something we had in common with them, my grandfather said, because chess was nothing if not a game of biding one's time and waiting for the perfect opening to strike. Because of this, my granddad and I began to feel a little sorry for the spiders and so made a secret pact to rescue any and all we found in the house, before mum could swat them into oblivion with a newspaper.

It would have been an especial shame to destroy this particular spider. There was something almost lovely about it. From beneath its glass prison it looked wrought from pure silver. If it wasn't for the slight twitch of its front legs, I would have thought it a piece of jewelry.

I decided on a clump of bushes just off the path, touched by the light of a nearby lamp post. I crouched down, but the soft swish of shoes brushing grass made me turn. I stiffened, squinting, as a figure materialized out of the darkness and stepped into the light. My shoulders relaxed. It was Clive.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked, "It's almost curfew."

"I was going to asked you the same thing." He glanced at the book and upturned vase, eyebrows raised.

"I'm rescuing this little fellow." I stood, holding up the vase for Clive to see. He stepped closer.

"Well, aren't you a good Samaritan." He tapped on the glass, "Spiders I don't mind. You?"

"Not really. I do hate rats. It's the tails mostly."

"Rats are supposed to be very intelligent, you know."

"That doesn't make them any less creepy. Bats too."

Clive shrugged.

"I don't mind them either."

"Hmm."

I was slightly miffed by his nonchalant tone. Maybe he was just distracted. As he continued to examine the spider, I peered closer at his face. The shadows under his eyes looked deeper than usual.

"Oh, come on." I said, trying my best to sound light and teasing, "What is it then? Snakes? Cockroaches? _Jellyfish_?"

"You'd laugh if I told you." His eyes remained on the spider.

"I wouldn't."

Clive shook his head and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.

"Sorry."

"So secretive, are we?"

I immediately regretted the words. Stupid.

Bending down, I tilted up the vase, allowing the spider to scurry down the book and into the grass.

"It's snails."

"What?" I stood up, distracted, watching the spider, the way that light reflected off its back.

"I hate snails."

I turned to him. I wanted to smile, but he sounded so grave that I tried to contain it. One slipped out anyway.

"See. I told you you'd laugh."

"I'm not laughing." I was laughing now, just a little bit. "Is there a... story behind this particular fear?"

"Oh, you can be sure." Clive turned to look down the path, "Not that I'm going to tell you."

I laughed again, but it faded as I realized that this was only the second time I had felt comfortable in Clive's presence since the incident with Felix. The first had been the morning of the exam, when I had shown Clive the fountain engraving and watched him come alive. He had talked of researching the Dreycott family and interrogating Amos. He'd even teased Bernard a bit. He acted similarly enthused after I showed him my pass after the exam, told him and the others about Rosen's puzzles I'd solved. Since then we had seen little of each other because of our busy schedules, but the few times the four of us had met up, for lunch or in the Red Room, he had seemed distant, troubled by something he was apparently unwilling or unable to share. I wondered if his research wasn't going as well as he hoped or if the whole business with Felix was still bothering him. We had never talked about it, Bernard, Clive, and I, and while the idea of doing so made me feel nervous, it didn't seem quite right to just ignore the matter, so that it was always looming behind us, casting its shadow whenever we were together.

"We should get back inside."

We'd both been silent for a long time. The shadow had fallen between us yet again.

"Wait." Clive ground his feet into the path, sending bits of gravel tumbling, "I'd like to talk to you about something. Before we go in. I mean, if that's alright."

"Of course."

I shivered as I spoke. I had forgotten to grab my jumper on my way down and now the wind was taking advantage, toying with my plaited hair and slithering under my collar. I folded my arms, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

Clive's eyes widened in an expression of slight embarrassment.

"Oh! Er, here."

He came alongside me and slipped off his jacket, draping it over my shoulders. I immediately felt warmer, but the pockets were rather heavy, weighed down with Clive's usual collection of newspapers, writing utensils, and other random objects, like...was that a stapler?

"Wouldn't want you catching cold right before your interview tomorrow." He frowned as he stepped back.

"No, I suppose not."

I shifted under the weight of the jacket, feeling stiff and a bit irritated.

 _Congrats on finding a way to makes things even more awkward between us_.

No. I flicked the thought away. He had good intentions. I was finding out there were many sides to Clive, but what still startled me the most about him was his kindness. It was genuine. Or at least it always seemed genuine. Sometimes I wondered if it was only a calculated gesture on his part, like when he wanted me to try out for Patrol. Other times I wondered if I just couldn't admit to myself that it was real, that he actually cared about someone like me. That we were really friends.

"Listen. I wanted to thank you." His voice was quiet. The wind tousled his hair and caught the edge of his tie, pulling it taut.

"Erm, you're welcome, but I already said-"

"No, I'm not talking about Patrol. I'm talking about what happened that night in the dining hall...with Felix."

"Oh."

Well, this was it. He wanted to talk about it now. After all this time. And now I wanted to run.

I didn't, though. I kept my feet planted firmly on the path, conscience of the hard-packed dirt, the gravel poking into my soles, as I thought of what to say. Maybe "you're welcome" would have been sufficient, but I had already said that. Why was he even thanking me? I hadn't even done that much anyway.

"And also I'm sorry, for putting you in the middle of that." Clive pushed back his stubborn bangs. He paused, drawing in a heavy breath, then continued. "I'm the one who wanted you to try out for Patrol. I pushed you."

"You didn-"

"Amelia, I did. And I was so caught up in the plan that I forgot-" For a second his voice seemed caught in his throat, "I forgot that you and Bernard could get hurt in the process. I didn't even think about how the Patrol might react if you two signed up. I should have known Felix would try to stir up trouble. I'm sorry."

Clive's eyes remained locked on mine, something he had avoided doing since the incident. He meant it. The shame was in his tone, his expression. I swallowed.

"It's okay. And thank you. For standing up to Felix."

Clive finally looked away.

"You make it seem like nothing ever affects you, that no amount of rubbish they hurl will ever knock you down. And maybe for a while...you can fool them on the outside. But inside...you start to break down and...crack." His eyes found mine again, "And then everyone can see what you were trying so hard to hide."

"I know the feeling." I said quietly, thinking of my first night at Dreycott, "And the awful thing is that's exactly what they want. Because they know you'll be the one paying for it in the end."

"I know. And if I would have thrashed Felix like I wanted to, it would've been over for me. Here at Dreycott, I mean. At first I didn't really care, but when you spoke up...I remembered why I'm still here. Why I tolerate this ridiculous school day in and day out."

I waited for him to elaborate, but now he was peering out in into the gloom beyond the island of light that surrounded us. Something seemed to have caught his eye. He touched my shoulder.

"Amelia..."

I stepped closer to see what he was looking at. There in the grass, at the edge of the light, was the spider. It was still. I bent closer and saw that its legs had curled up under its body.

I straightened.

"So much for my rescue attempt." I shivered again, despite Clive's jacket, "Why would it just die like that?"

"I don't know." Clive said, but I could tell he was thinking hard about something.

"Clive, why does-" I stopped. I had wanted to ask him about Gemma, her silent treatment, and how a spider could possibly fit into it all, but I wasn't sure how to frame the question. I shook my head. "Er, I mean, you never told me why you're out here."

"Just examining the fountain for the umpteenth time." Clive started back down the path, in the direction of the dorms, "I wanted to go earlier today, but Amos was hovering."

As I followed after Clive, I took one last glance at the spider. I usually wasn't one to believe in such things, but I couldn't help but feel it was an omen of some sort. A sinister one.

"Have you talked with him yet?" I asked, striding quickly to match his pace.

"I tried once. A soon as I opened my mouth he turned on his heel, this sort of offended look on his face, and made for the hills...or wherever it is he goes."

"He is speedy for a man his age."

Clive chuckled. We had reached the side entrance, but we lingered just outside the door.

"How has your research been going?" I asked.

"Alright. Dreycott's library is colossal, you know. It could take some time before I turn anything up, if there _is_ anything to turn up."

"That book in the special collection is our best bet?"

"Yes. And it won't be long now before we get our hands on it." He smiled at me.

"You really think Rosen will pick me?"

"There's only five of you left now. And two spots to fill. I'd say your chances are good."

I shuffled my feet, not sure I quite believed him.

"We should get inside before Vivian finds us."

"Amelia, what I was going to say before," Clive broke in, his words coming out in a rush, "When you tried stopping me from, well, from smashing Felix's face in, I remembered...I remembered I wasn't alone. You were looking out for me and that made me realize I couldn't just throw everything away. That I have work to do here and people _I_ need to look out for. So, thank you for that. Really."

I blinked up at Clive, my mouth hanging open, trying to process all his words. And then he did something I'd never seen him do before. He blushed.

"Now I've gone and made an idiot of myself, haven't I?"

He made to shove his hands in his pockets, then seemed to realize he wasn't wearing his jacket any longer. His arms dropped to his sides.

"No," I gave him a small, reassuring smile, "I'm-I'm glad you told me." I gripped the door handle, "Now let's go in before they up and expel us both."

Once we were inside, I took off Clive's jacket and handed it to him.

"Thank you. Er, you didn't catch cold yourself, did you?"

Clive smiled, a soft one, with no sharp edge or concealed craftiness.

"Don't worry about me. I-"

"Ruth. Dove. Ten minutes to curfew. Get to your dorms."

We turned to see Vivian standing at the top of the steps, arms folded.

"Good luck tomorrow."

Clive headed off down the hallway without a second glance at Vivian. I went upstairs, passing under the Head Girl's watchful glare.

"You never learn do you, Ruth?" she said in a flat voice.

I felt a shard of dread stab my chest, but I took a deep breath and went on to my room without another word. Gemma was sitting on the edge of my bed staring at my dresser.

"Finish your Latin?"

She blinked.

"Oh. No. Not really." A long sigh escaped her lips, hanging in the air like mist in a graveyard.

I bit my lip, then forced myself to ask another question, one I had wanted answered all throughout term.

"Gemma, is something wrong?"

"What? No. Don't be silly." She stood up, "Oh, hey. I forgot to tell you. I grabbed your post after dinner tonight." She dug around in her bag and pulled out a stack of three letters rubber-banded together. "You're lucky. My mom tries to force my little brothers and sister to write to me, but they always forget. Or they just send unintelligible scribbles." Gemma made a face.

Taking the letters, I pulled off the rubber band and sorted through them. One was from my granddad, another was from an old schoolmate in Luxenbelle who wrote occasionally, but the last looked unfamiliar. The envelope was thick, pale yellow, and stained. The handwriting on the back had smudged, making it impossible for me to read the names or addresses. The front had a silver seal. On closer examination I saw that it was already broken.

"Did you open this one?" I asked.

"What? No, of course not."

She came and stood behind me, peering closely at it.

"Who's it from?"

"I don't know."

I lifted the flap and pulled out a sheet of thin folded paper. It was brittle between my fingers. Unfolding it, I scanned the small cursive script.

"It's not addressed to me. Someone must have put it in my letterbox by mistake."

Gemma sat back down on my bed.

"What does it say? Read it!"

"I probably shouldn't."

Gemma rolled her eyes.

"Okay, okay."

I cleared my throat and began.

 _Dear Dante,_

 _Sorry I didn't write sooner, but we were away on holiday and grandfather keeps us busy. You would think he'd wish to slow down and relax during the summer, but, no, he managed to turn a trip to our seaside cottage into an exercise in organization and punctuality. Even mama became a little frustrated._

 _I'm glad to hear your sister is feeling better, there's nothing worse than being sick in the summer, poor thing. I am very much looking forward to meeting her when she comes to Dreycott this fall. And she_ will _come, grandfather extends an invitation to you both. I wish we could see each other before then, but if your family's said no once, I doubt they'll change their mind. I only wish we knew why._

 _It's so lonely here. Mama is always abroad. The school is all grandfather can think about. He has such big plans._

 _You're very lucky to have Marcy. I wish I had a sister or even a tagalong little brother. The best I can do is my dog, Bone, but he only wants to be around me when I smuggle bacon from breakfast. Oh, dear, now I sound self-pitying. Please just laugh to yourself if ever I do. I keep myself occupied in the library most days. And don't think I'm just reading for leisure! I'm researching as I hope you are. Hopefully we'll each have a few good leads by the time fall term begins_

 _Please write back when you get the chance,_

 _Beatrice_

 _PS - I've made it through the Inferno, now you must go and pick me some chevrefoil._

I looked up at Gemma.

"Well?"

She rubbed her chin.

"Dante...? Beatrice...? Those names sound familiar."

I refolded the letter.

"It looks pretty old. I wonder if it ever reached Dante?"

"The real question is how it ended up in your box."

I furrowed my brow.

"It sounds as though Beatrice's grandfather was headmaster at Dreycott or something."

"Hey! Rosen's grandfather used to be headmaster. Do you think _she_ wrote the letter?"

"I guess it's possible. But why would she call herself Beatrice?"

"Ermm. No clue."

I sighed. Just another mystery to ponder and fret about added to the countless others I had stumbled across at Dreycott. I placed the letter back in its envelope and set it on my desk.

"I don't know. I just want to make it to the end of the term."

Gemma picked up her note-cards that were still scattered across my bed and floor.

"You and me both."

A swift knock sounded on the door.

"Lights out."

"Well, so much for that." Gemma shrugged as she gathered her things, "I wish I could walk with you to Rosen's office, but I've got exams first thing in the morning." She stuck out her tongue.

"It's okay. I'll tell you all about it at lunch." I yawned, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight and good luck." Gemma paused, "Say, what took you so long anyway?"

"Oh. I, er, ran into Clive."

"What did he have to say?"

"Er, a lot actually, but... I'll tell you some other time. I'm really tired."

Gemma looked tired herself. Her eyelids hung low and her shoulders slumped. She let out a loud yawn.

"Remember, Amelia, if you can survive Rosen, you can do anything."

After she left, I changed into my pajamas and settled in bed, the three letters on my lap. I read through my grandfather's letter, twice for good measure, then my schoolmate's, and finally I returned to the old letter. I couldn't shake the feeling that it hadn't been placed in my letterbox by mistake. Someone had deliberately put it there. But who and why?

Setting the letters aside, I switched off my lamp and sunk my head into my pillow, listening to the wind and the tree clawing at the glass.

That night I dreamt of spiders weaving webs of inky cursive script, spelling out words I couldn't read, messages that curled and faded, disintegrating into ashes.


	9. Chapter Nine

**The Story So Far...**

 _The night before her appointment with the headmistress, Amelia rescues a spider which appears to be connected in some way to Gemma's baffling reputation. Later on, she discovers she is the recipient of an old letter, addressed to someone named "Dante". Amelia finally goes to bed, the events of the evening slipping into her dreams..._

 **Chapter Nine**

The next morning I awoke to find that the ashes had escaped my dreams and were now swirling outside my window. I blinked and pushed myself up into a sitting position. No. It was snow. Hundreds of flakes swarmed against the glass like a veil of colorless gnats. Between the branches of the hawthorne, the sky was chalk, clouds so dense they blended seamlessly into one.

The clock on my desk read ten past eight. My appointment with Professor Rosen was at 8:30. I had overslept. Though I prided myself on being an early riser with no need for any sort of alarm, last night my dreams had held on to me with particularly tight fingers, a characteristic I had thought exclusive of fever dreams. I did not feel sick now, not physically. During the night my mind must have produced a feverish state all its own as it groped for the answers to the assortment of questions that were weighing upon it. And now...now I wouldn't have time for breakfast.

That simple, sorry revelation threatened to color the rest of the day in shades of gray-brown failure.

I forced myself out of bed and got dressed, warmth slowly returning to my stiff muscles. I knew I ought to feel nervous about meeting with Professor Rosen, but my mind was still heavily laden with all that had happened last night. Gemma...Clive...the letter...and the spider.

At least my conversation with Clive had ended well. That was one dark balloon I could release into the sky. We could both finally put the Felix incident behind us, which was a relief. In fact, I was feeling better about Clive then I had all term. His sincere apology and his gratitude towards me (disregarding how little it was actually deserved) had helped to clear the lingering doubts I had about him. His embarrassment, too, had further shifted my impressions by removing the cloak of mystery (or studied nonchalance or whatever you'd like to call it) he always tried so hard to have surround his person. It wasn't the first time I'd witnessed Clive letting his guard down, of course, but I didn't think I'd ever seen him quite so... _human_ as he had been last night, flustered and utterly lacking in his previous confidence.

His cloak kept others from getting to him, like he told me, but I was discovering it also kept anyone from trusting him, myself included. And if we were ever to uncover the truth behind the Sentient Statue, there had to be some level of trust between us. Maybe now that could be possible. More so than before, at any rate.

Gemma's dilemma, on the other hand, was a balloon with a string wrapped doubly round my wrist, cutting off all circulation. I could try cornering her about her reputation, but direct confrontations were something I always tried to avoid, mainly because I was so bad at actually being confrontational. And if she wanted to keep it private, was it really any of my business to pry? Gemma was always so open about everything. If she consciously chose to hide some aspect about herself, perhaps there was good reason for it. Still, I felt terrible about the whole situation. I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep ignoring it. That being said, how much longer could _Gemma_ keep ignoring it? Last night had been the first time I had seen her react to the way others distanced themselves from her. She hadn't acted shocked, like she had never noticed the treatment before. On the contrary, she had seemed depressed, as if the constant whispers and shared knowing looks were finally starting to wear her down. I thought of a flower ground to powder under the weight of a pestle.

The letter wasn't so worrisome as it was baffling. I wanted to believe it was only a mistake on the part of the mail room, but, then again, maybe that was less likely then someone deliberately placing it in my box. A strange thought kept creeping into my mind. What if Gemma had given me the letter, had lied and said she'd found it with the others? As many times as it appeared, I brushed the thought aside. She had no motivation for doing such a thing. Besides, I couldn't allow myself to become suspicious of her, not when I was the only ally she had. Funny. I was her friend, but I also held the singular position of having no idea what was going on with her.

And then the spider. Was it important? The school emblem was a silver spider, which seemed too much of a coincidence for my liking. But what did a spider have to do with Gemma or the Sentient Statue or anything? There was no connections, no sticky threads, that would link it to any of the other mysteries at Dreycott. And yet... _and yet_...

These thoughts kept me well occupied as I made my way to Professor Rosen's office (thankfully the pass Lily had given me had included directions). The corridors were empty, everyone in class, taking exams. I would have to make up one of my own exams later that day, but I could put no effort into worrying about that now.

Reaching a door affixed with a silver plate that read "Professor Abigail Rosen", I knocked, soft but firm.

"Come in." said a familiar voice.

I opened the door and stepped into a small secretary's office. Mrs. Brickle was behind a desk that took up most of the space, her fingers flying across her ancient typewriter.

"Good morning, Miss Ruth." she said in her usual rasp, followed by her usual sniff (it was a great injustice that she had such an evil voice, because she seemed to me in all ways an ordinary, respectable secretary) "Your pass?"

I handed her the folded sheet of paper.

"Have a seat. The professor will be with you in a few minutes."

There was a small flat sofa against the right wall. I sat down, hands in my lap. No magazines or any other banal form of entertainment was to be had, so I studied the room until I'd memorized every detail, from the wastepaper basket full of crumpled papers to the photograph on Mrs. Brickle's desk of the very same typewriter that clacked and pinged beneath her bony hands. There was a small window opposite me, but all I could see out of it was sky and snow, white upon white. For all I knew, I could be looking into the tumbling contents of a giant salt-shaker.

While I looked about the room, I tried running through my mind everything I knew about Rosen, to try and get a handle on what sort of woman she was and so prepare myself. Now that I was here, just a door away from seeing her, my anxiety had finally bloomed. I knew the best way to calm myself was to review the facts. Unfortunately, the facts were few and far between.

Almost all of what I knew about Rosen came from her opening speech and the opinions of my friends who, each having been at Dreycott longer than I, had more opportunities to glimpse the elusive headmistress. Rosen's speech had been professional, if not a little cliché. She had made herself appear very dedicated to the school as any proper headmistress would. She was also very proud of the Patrol. That left a bad taste in my mouth. Was she simply unaware that she was mollycoddling little tyrants or did she approve of, maybe even encourage, them?

Clive did not have a high opinion of Rosen from what I had gathered from our conversations. She ran the place like a battleship, I think he had said the first time we met, and during our chess game he told me he thought the Patrol was Rosen's means of gaining the favor of wealthy parents. He hadn't really given me any hard evidence, though, so I'd decided not to jump to any conclusions. For her part, Gemma thought Rosen was stiff and gray and blah and probably still wore a corset (her words not mine). Bernard was angry that Rosen had so easily written off the Sentient Statue as a prank.

Taken together, my "facts" lead to an image of Rosen that was quite a bit more negative than I would've liked. But perhaps even more significant than what information I did have was all the information I did not. Rosen apparently never interacted with her pupils unless she gave them a pass to her office, which she never left, as far as I knew. At least, _I_ had not seen her anywhere around the school since the opening assembly several months prior. Even more so than Mrs. Goodson, she had made herself, whether intentionally or not, into a distant and inscrutable figure. The question was why. If she cared so much about Dreycott, one would expect her to be heavily involved with its daily affairs, not sitting in her office, twiddling her thumbs while a group of students, with her blessing no less, threatened and extorted their peers.

Whatever the case, I absolutely could not let Rosen think I had a low opinion of her. If she thought I had the slightest distaste for her, it could affect my chances for the worst. But I wouldn't fawn over her either. I would be...neutral. Neutral and beige as the walls that surrounded me.

I was jolted from my thoughts when the door that lead into Rosen's office opened and a man in an emerald green suit stepped out.

"Have a good day, sir." Mrs. Brickle said, her fingers not pausing for a moment.

"Likewise."

The man glanced at me as he strode by. I had never seen him before. He was not a teacher as far as I knew nor a member of the staff. His features were rather non-descript and gave few indications of his age. Apart from his expensive suit, he looked the type of man who could melt into a crowd and disappear, immediately forgotten. Turning quickly as his glance, he was soon out the door, the echo of his footsteps dwindling into silence.

"Miss Ruth, Professor Rosen will see you now." Mrs. Brickle said, finally ceasing her typing.

I stood, waiting for the sound that always followed. No...no...wait. Mrs. Brickle gave a loud sniff.

Satisfied, I walked towards the office door, my stomach tightening. This was it. The last step, the endgame, to becoming a patroller. I opened the door and stepped in.

Rosen's office served as a huge contrast to the rest of the school. Instead of antiques, the room was occupied by several carefully placed pieces of minimal furniture. A sleek black bookcase, a gray filing cabinet, and a pot containing a sculpted tree occupied the right wall. On the left, two pieces of abstract art hung next to each other, intricate geometric shapes intersecting in a variety of monotone shades. The carpet was firm and gray beneath my feet. Very new. You could tell by the room's smell, a sterile scent of man-made fibers combined with paint and some sort of industrial strength cleaner.

A wide desk was placed in front of a long window covered by Venetian blinds. Sitting at the desk in a curved office chair was Professor Rosen. She had been examining several papers, but when I stepped further into the room she looked up and folded her hands, a professional smile already in place. As during the opening assembly, she was wearing a gray suit that complimented her smooth sheet of silver hair. I noticed she had a silver pendant around her neck, as well.

"You must be Amelia Ruth." she said.

"Yes, Professor."

As I reached the desk, she held out a hand and I shook it briefly. With a small gasp, I realized her pendant was in the shape of a silver spider, its front legs clinging to a round blue stone.

"Please, have a seat."

Professor Rosen gestured to the chair sitting opposite her own. I did so, discreetly pulling up my socks out of habit.

"Well, let's not waste time with small talk." Rosen said, her voice crisp and even, "I was quite impressed with you exam performance."

She was looking at me very intently, her eyes gray and hooded. Her hands she kept steepled in front of her, resting on her papers.

I decided upon a safe and simple,

"Thank you, Professor."

"I assume you're wondering why I chose such an unorthodox method to test potential patrollers." Rosen paused, but when I did not say anything, she continued, "It's alright. You can answer truthfully."

"It wasn't what I was expecting." I admitted.

"It caught you off guard. As any proper test should. Reality never allows one to prepare as fully as one could and an exam should reflect that. But more importantly, I designed the exam the way I did because I wanted to find those pupils who truly pay attention." Rosen waved a manicured hand, "Almost anyone can carry out straightforward instructions and commit rote facts to memory, but very few are engaged enough to examine those same instructions and facts from all angles, to look past mere appearances and assumptions to find the truth. That was the intent of the first half of the exam. The second half...I wanted to test how quickly the pupil could think on her feet." Rosen smiled faintly, "In actuality, a past headmaster concocted that puzzle. The disheveled room, the keys, the cabinet...all of it was designed specifically to bewilder and distract the solver."

"So, patrollers have always been tested with puzzles?" I asked, thinking of Darcy.

The headmistress did not appear to hear me. She had opened a thin file lying on her desk and was now flipping through its contents.

"I understand your grandfather, Abelard Ruth, attended this school in his youth?"

"Yes."

"I remember him."

I sat up straighter in surprise.

"That's right. I also attended this school as a girl. Your grandfather was two years my senior. I won't flatter myself by calling us friends, but I admired his dedication, his intellect. He went on to become a professor, himself, if I am not mistaken, and almost made the title of Grandmaster?"

"Yes."

Rosen's nails clacked against the desk.

"That is promising. What can you tell me about your parents?" She glanced at one of her papers, "Gerald and Polly Ruth?"

"Well..." I thought quickly, not quite sure what information she was searching for, "My father's postmaster in Luxenbelle, my mother looks after the house."

Compared to my grandfather, my parent's achievements looked rather paltry, which didn't bother me, but was sure to underwhelm Rosen.

"I see. And if Mr. Grambler is to be believed, you are quite gifted at chess just like your grandfather."

"Well, I've still got-"

"No false modesty here, please. I want you to be honest with me, Miss Ruth. I expect that quality in my patrollers above any other."

"I haven't lost a game here yet." I said quietly.

"How long have you been playing?"

"Since I was six."

"Your grandfather taught you, I assume. Yet you have not entered any competitions? No tournaments?" The professor's thin eyebrows were raised.

"No. I haven't really thought much about that, I guess."

The thought of playing in a serious competitive setting while other people sat and watched was enough to make my stomach churn.

"Hmm. Tell me, what is it that interests you about the game?"

I frowned, my brow furrowing. That was a difficult question to answer with specifics, like trying to explain why you prefer a certain food over another. When you feel a natural inclination to enjoy a particular pursuit, such as chess, you don't often ask yourself what drew you to the pursuit or why you found it enjoyable in the first place. It just seems a part of you, like eye color or height. But if I went back far enough, back to when I was a little girl, when my grandad had just moved in with us, maybe that was where the answer could be found.

"I wasn't interested at first." I finally said, "But then I saw how passionate my grandad was about it...I think it sort of rubbed off on me. At least, I became curious. He started teaching me and it was confusing, but the more I played the more it made sense, until... until it made more sense than anything else."

I narrowed my eyes, as the memories of that time tumbled through my mind. My last sentence must have sounded cryptic to Rosen, but to me it was the summation of that entire period of my life. I had been too young to fully understand what was going on then, but I knew enough to feel frightened and disoriented as if the world was a kaleidoscope that had been violently shaken, changing old, comforting patterns into ones that were both unfamiliar and grotesque. Everything was suddenly uncertain, except for chess. Through the game, my grandfather had introduced me to a world of order and logic, of fixed laws and familiar pieces, always with the same patterns, sliding along the same squares. If there was any element of mystery involved, it could always be solved with sharp thinking and strategy. The black and white checkered board had become a place of escape. A sanctuary.

"Than anything else?" Rosen echoed, her own eyes narrowed as if she were trying to understand.

"What I meant was, I mean why it interests me...it's like a puzzle. There's limitations. How do you work around those limitations, use them to your advantage to best your opponent? Just the challenge of it all, I suppose. How it stretches your brain."

I was coming up with all of this off the top of my head. Not that it wasn't all true, but what I was saying added up to only a few pages taken from a lengthy book. Chess had been woven into my life from a very young age. It was hard to try and separate it from other threads, especially my grandad. I could never think of chess without thinking of him, almost as if they were two halves of a whole. I loved chess because of my grandad and, in a way, I loved him because of chess.

Rosen turned back to her file again, my second answer having apparently appeased her.

"I see you are doing well in all of your classes. I expect that your performances in each of your final exams will be satisfactory. Apart from one or two minor incidences near the beginning of term, you have a tidy record." Rosen looked up, "About your friends."

My friends? My cheeks colored. How was that any of the professor's business? How did she even know who my friends were?

"I see you are offended. Don't be. I must consider all aspects of the pupil in order to make the proper choice, including their personal life." She continued, her eyes cast down on the file, "Bernard Trewinkle. Above average pupil, his father is an upper-year chemistry teacher here. Gemma Mudget," She paused and her brow lowered, "Professor Xander tells me she is a talented young actress. Average pupil. And Clive Dove. I assume you are aware of that young man's reputation at this school?"

 _Oh no,_ I thought, _here we go again_. Why did all conversations inevitably lead to Clive? I inhaled a deep breath as quietly as I could.

"Yes."

"How did you come to be acquainted with Mr. Dove?"

 _He stood up to your precious lackeys for me_ , I wanted to say.

"He helped me find the dormitories my first night." I said instead, my voice sounding stiffer than I would have liked.

Rosen's demure expression remain unperturbed, but I noticed her smile had slipped.

"I know you expect me to pass judgement, but that is beyond my jurisdiction. You may befriend whomever you wish, I can only choose to accept you into my Patrol... or not. Although, I must say I am surprised. Mr. Dove has proven to be quite a... challenging case. But perhaps you can influence him in the right direction."

A shot of anger suddenly coursed through me. My body felt brittle. I was afraid if I moved, even shifted slightly, I would break like old pottery. All I could see was Clive's black eye. All I could hear were Felix's taunts.

The professor raised her eyebrows.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," I lied, but my face betrayed me. It was burning.

Rosen studied me for a long moment as I resisted the urge to look away.

"Remember what I said, Miss Ruth. Honesty."

She had me backed into a corner. I chewed on my lip, trying to find words that wouldn't sound offensive. That wouldn't cause the headmistress to make her decision about me right then and there.

"It's just...it doesn't seem like Clive is always treated fairly."

"By the Patrol, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I'm afraid Mr. Dove hasn't made it easy for the Patrol to do their jobs. He enjoys bending to the rules right up to the point of breaking. I don't condone fighting of any sort, but I will allow my patrollers to defend themselves if the need arises."

I blinked, too shocked to say anything more. She was making excuses for them, just as Mrs. Goodson had done. A troubling question rose out of the sea of countless others that were flooding my mind. I could have stopped it, could have kept it in and let it sear me from the inside out, but I was still angry and so I let it fly like a hot spark springing from a fire.

"Why haven't you expelled him?"

I cringed. The edge in my voice had made it sound like a challenge. Now it was Rosen's turn to be at a loss for words.

"Well, I... _ahem_ , I am afraid we are getting off topic." She paused, then added in a severe tone, "That is not a matter I discuss with students unless it specifically relates to them."

My eyes fell to my socks, which were drooping again.

"I'm sorry, Professor."

Rosen seemed to regain her composure. She steepled her hands once more.

"Now. Why don't you tell me why you wish to join the Patrol, Amelia."

Another difficult question; the same one everyone in chess club wanted to know. I had a definite answer, of course, but it was certainly not one I could divulge to Rosen. For a moment, I remained silent, struggling to come up with a suitable reply that wouldn't raise suspicions and yet wasn't a lie.

"I want to help this school." I said at last, "This seemed the best way."

It was true, but still vague enough to mean a number of different things.

"I see. You wish to improve the school, make it a better place. Correct?"

"I suppose."

"Then we have a goal in common. I'm sure you long to make your grandfather proud when you play chess, just as I long to make my own grandfather proud, by continuing his legacy and restoring this school's former glory."

Rosen sat back in her chair and folded her hands on her desk, her eyes suddenly distant.

 _"_ Dreycott's motto is _'praeteritum est, non tacet'._ That is Latin for "the past is not silent". Do you understand what this means?"

I thought a moment.

"I think so. It means that the past doesn't just disappear, it, it continues to affect the present, it shapes the future."

"Very good. The past continues to speak to us and so we must learn from it: our past words, our past actions, and our past mistakes." Rosen sighed and her voice became very quiet, "Sometimes one wishes the past could be erased or forgotten. It only erodes. Time may smooth out the sharpest edges, but the rest remains. Hard. Immovable."

She blinked.

"Forgive me." Her voice returned to its professional tone, " I think we have covered everything." Closing the file, she stood and I followed her lead, "I wish you luck in all of your exams. I'm sure you will pass with ease. I'll make the official announcement on who I have chosen at the end of term assembly."

"Thank you, Professor."

I turned to go.

"Miss Ruth."

I stopped and swiveled my head around. Rosen was still standing behind her desk, one hand clasping her spider pendant.

"Haven't you forgotten something?"

I furrowed my brow, trying to think if I had dropped a pencil.

"...No?"

"My mistake," Rosen smiled thinly, "Good day."

"Good day."

I stepped out of her office and past Mrs. Brickle, who was so engaged with her typewriter she did not appear to see me.

Coming out into the hallway, I ran into Stewart who was clutching a pass of his own. There was something different about him. It was his hair. Usually, it stuck up in every direction, but today it had been painstakingly combed and slicked back across his scalp. A sharp, spicy smell was wafting off his clothes as if he had bathed in a vat of my grandfather's cologne.

"Oh! Hello, Amelia."

"Hello, Stewart." I kept my voice guarded. Stewart could be quite the weasel when he was sucking up to Vivian and Trevor, but on his own he seemed more inclined to be friendly. I wasn't sure which side was the genuine one, so I kept my manner in cool neutral whenever I interacted with him.

"You've finished your interview? I mean you have, right?"

"Yes."

Stewart's watery eyes somehow grew even larger, like expanding soap bubbles about to pop.

"What's she like?" he asked in a hushed, trembling voice, his fingers fluttering to straighten his tie and slick his hair back even further as he kept his eyes fixed on mine.

"Professor Rosen?" I tugged on one of my braids.

"Is she nice? Beautiful? Scary? Absolutely wonderful?"

I sighed.

"Complicated." I finally said and started off down the corridor, leaving bubble-eyed Stewart and his cloud of cologne behind me.

As the week progressed, one thing Professor Rosen had said to me proved to be true. I did pass all of my final exams, although saying it was easy would have been too long a stretch. Dreycott's teachers were strict and the work rigorous. My exams reflected both of these facts. I felt a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders when I joined Gemma, Bernard, and Clive in the lecture theatre on the last day of term for the assembly. Still, I knew I couldn't relax quite yet. Indeed, now that my exams were out of the way, I could focus all of my efforts on worrying over what two names Rosen would be announcing in a matter of minutes.

Much like my first day, the place was full, the teachers and patrollers sitting close to the stage near the front, the rest of the pupils spread out among the remaining seats. The four of us were clear in the back near a window that let in a slate sky hanging low over the lawn. The grass looked almost as gray as the sky, mixed with a meager amount of slush (all that remained from Monday's snowfall), while the trees seemed to droop and sag under the weight of the clouds.

Even as the other pupils chattered and laughed around us, the four of us remained silent. We had arrived at the moment we had been waiting for all of term, the moment that would shape our little investigation for better or worse.

Gemma sat at the end of the row, sporadically gazing out the window and towards the stage where Rosen would appear at any moment. She had bounced back to her chipper self after that night before my interview and was more relieved than any of us to be done with school for a few weeks. She flashed me a grin when she saw my glance and pointed out the window. Amos Crimp, bundled in a heavy overcoat, but still wearing his straw sunhat, was chasing a flock of sparrows away from the fountain, spinning a shovel between his hands like a baton twirler in a parade. I giggled.

Bernard's nose was, as usual, hovering mere centimeters from a block of dense, tiny print. Having finished with his schoolwork, he told me, he had returned to reading for leisure, finishing up a hefty book by some psychologist or another on the potential implications of self-determinism. Clive sat to my left, looking thoughtful, as he tapped a pencil against a blank page in his notebook. He suddenly straightened and my eyes followed his down the rows of seats to the stage, where Professor Rosen was striding towards the microphone. She detached it from its stand and gazed out over the crowd just as she had done several months earlier.

"This term has flown by, has it not? I want to wish you all congratulations on a job well done in both your classes and exams. It is all of you, students and teachers alike, who transform Dreycott from an empty building into a thriving institute where minds can flourish and go on to shape the world."

Gemma made a show of jamming her finger to the back of her throat. Bernard sighed at her, perhaps a little too loudly, causing Clive to smile faintly. All four of us were on the edges of our seats, literally, leaning forward, ears straining, waiting for Rosen to bring up the subject.

After a few more opening remarks, the professor finally paused.

"Now, it is time to turn to a pressing matter that must be addressed before you are dismissed. As many of you know, this is the final year for several of our most beloved patrollers, including Garret and Greta, better known as the Dreycott Welcoming committee."

"Evil twins." Gemma coughed.

"In preparation for the departure of these pupils at the end of the school year, I have been busy searching for new patrollers to take their place, ready and eager to serve." Rosen retrieved two sashes from a nearby box, "At the beginning of term, I selected Eric Hilberg. And now, after much deliberation, I have chosen two additional pupils. The first is a young man of great integrity and dedication: Boniface Stewart."

As the room echoed with applause, Bernard and I shared a look of disbelief.

"But he didn't even pass the first part of the exam." Bernard said.

"You know, I did see him on my way out of Rosen's office, but I never even considered he might be going in for his own interview."

"Would you know his father owns one of London's largest construction companies?" Clive said, still tapping his pencil.

"I don't get it." I said, "From the way she spoke to me, Rosen made her puzzles out to be an essential part of the selection process. And now she just chooses Stewart because of his dad's money?"

"That doesn't bode well for you." Bernard muttered.

Stewart had finally ascended the stage. He stood proudly, chest puffed out, as Rosen pinned his sash into place.

"I hereby dub you, Boniface Stewart, a junior patroller." she said.

Applause. Stewart swelled under its roar.

"Boniface," Gemma snickered, "No wonder he goes by Stewart. I wonder if his mother calls him Boni? Little Boniboo."

"And as for our other new patroller, she is a young woman of great intelligence, Amelia Ruth."

There it was. What I had been waiting for. But now that it had actually been said I couldn't quite believe it. There was clapping. I think I stood up, wobbling slightly. Clive, Bernard, and Gemma were all saying things to me, but I forgot how to hear. I walked down the center aisle like a sleepwalker, blinking heavily, stumbling past countless rows of students, teachers who smiled at me, and patrollers who gave me blank, stony looks.

I was on stage, now. Rosen shook my hand and maybe Stewart tried to as well, but I ignored him. My eyes were fixed completely on the satiny silver material that Rosen was winding across my chest, like a spider snaring me in its web.

Rosen fitted a shield shaped pin near the top of the sash with the letters JP contained within. Then she grasped me by the shoulders and turned me towards the audience.

"Students and teachers of Dreycott, I give you your two newest patrollers."

The applause was a thrum in my chest. I should have been happy, excited. I'd done what I'd set out to do. We were one step closer to solving the mystery of the Sentient Statue. But at that moment, all I felt was a current of fear working its way through my body like an electric shock.

The game was set. The web was woven. I was the pawn behind enemy lines. The fly tugging to get free, only to become tangled beyond all hope of escape.

 **End of Part One**


	10. Chapter Ten

PART TWO

 **The Story So Far...**

 _After completing her interview with Professor Rosen, Amelia is chosen to join Patrol before she leaves to go home for the Christmas holiday. Now, two weeks later, she returns to Dreycott School for her second term..._

 **Chapter Ten**

My first day back at Dreycott after the Christmas holiday I think I spoke with more patrollers than I had the whole of my first term. By the end of the day, I realized these patrollers could be sorted into two simple categories based upon their reaction to me and my new status: either they tried to ignore me or else acted under the impression that I was incompetent.

Undoubtedly, some patrollers were being perfectly intentional. It was their way to treat all new recruits as inferior using one or the other of the aforementioned methods. Other patrollers appeared not to mean any real harm, but because I was a newcomer and because all they knew about me was that I was the quiet, invisible sort, they treated me in a manner they thought was fitting for a person with such qualifications.

Ursula Stanton was a girl of this latter sort. Among the Patrol, she stood out as the most decent of the lot. She was always friendly in her personal dealings with other pupils, although even she seemed incapable of seeing beyond Dreycott's pecking order. During my first term, she had never spoken more then a few polite words to me at a time, but now that I was wearing a silver sash just like her own she immediately took it upon herself to show me the ropes, directing her utmost attention upon me with the intensity of a mother looking after a newborn.

Ursula had begun by reintroducing herself. We were equals now, after all, or very nearly, since I was still only a junior patroller and she was assistant to Vivian. She had then expressed her desire to personally introduce me to all the other patrollers since I was "a bit shy" and probably could not have managed on my own. With that in mind, she decided it was time to take me to one of the few places within the school I had not yet seen.

"You're going to love this, Amy. Is it okay if I call you Amy?" Ursula had stopped at a set of double doors at the end of a hallway, towards the rear of the west wing. A sign posted on the door read, "Restricted Access. Patrollers Only."

"Er, that's...fine."

I actually detested the name Amy. It was a bit too unabashedly chipper for my liking. The only exception was when my grandad used it, but he only ever did so sparingly, when he really wanted to get my goat. To protest, however, would've only made me sound like a snob. As long as _everyone_ didn't start using the nickname, I could probably manage.

"Fab." Ursula smiled. She was in Year 12, but merely a head taller than me with coffee skin and a halo of dense frizzy curls she kept pulled back with a bright yellow headband. Her expression was so sincere I felt bad for being annoyed with her.

"Is this the patroller lounge?" I ventured, trying to force my voice to maintain a noticeable level of enthusiasm. I may not have been that enthused, but I was very curious after all the stories I had heard involving the supposed opulence of the room. There was even a rumor the lounge had its own swimming pool.

"Bingo. It's like command central, but a lot of the time we just come here to hang out." Ursula pushed down on one of the door handles. "You ready?"

Without waiting for a reply, she opened the door wide, allowing a flood of dazzling sunlight to spill into the hall.

"Go on." she said, ushering me past her.

I stepped into the lounge, my eyes fluttering in a spurt of blinks as they struggled to adjust themselves to the sudden influx of light. Even before I could see properly, I knew the lounge must be enormous from the sound of my soft footsteps magnified into impressive echoes that resounded far above my head.

I stopped, the echoes dying in my ear, and squinted towards the source of the light. Opposite from where I stood was a floor to ceiling bay window, beyond which could be seen the lawn behind the school, far more wild and tangled than the front. The gnarled trees and feral bushes nearly hid the gravel walk that meandered all around Dreycott's property. Perched just above growth, the late noon sun, unusually strong for early January, penetrated the glass, cascaded onto the floor, and splashed across the walls, bathing the whole place in a buttery aura.

My eyes moved up the window to focus on the ceiling which was even loftier than the library's and had a round sky-light in the very center, like the blue eye of a giant frozen in shock. The window and ceiling provided the room with an open, airy feel I associated with museums and the lobbies of grand hotels. The contents of the room only strengthened the connection. There were plush sofas and armchairs scattered the length of the lounge, many placed about a cavernous fireplace, others circling an impressive entertainment system which had as its focus a very new flat screen telly. One corner of the room appeared devoted to study, complete with a row of tables equipped with reading lamps and a heavy, well-stocked bookshelf. In another corner, a spiral staircase climbed to a narrow gallery that ran the length of the left side of the room.

Amidst all of this, vases, sculptures, flowering plants, and other fine decor had been carefully arranged. The largest decorative feature was a fountain of feathery gray stone sitting directly below the skylight. It was much smaller than the one out on the front lawn, but was impressive nonetheless. The gentle rush and bubble of the water provided a soothing backdrop for the ears. It was the only sound to be heard, apart from the footsteps and voices of the handful of patrollers currently occupying the lounge, some sitting on sofas, others milling about.

"Well," Ursula came up alongside me and folded her arms, "Do you love it or do you love it?" She looked around the room with an air of satisfaction, as if she were the angel who had successfully lead me to heaven's doorstep. "Much better than that sardine tin of a common room, wouldn't you say?"

That was an understatement. While it fell short of a swimming pool, the lounge was five times more extravagant than the rest of the school and in much better condition, besides. I almost wanted to laugh. No wonder the Patrol went around with their noses stuck in the air, when they were given exclusive access to a place like this.

"It's a lot to take in." I answered.

Ursula giggled.

"You always sound so serious. Lighten up a little bit, Amy." She grabbed my hand. "C'mon, I want to show you something."

She pulled me over to the fountain. Jets of water arched high out of the central basin before cascading into a shallow pool, its bottom layered with hundreds of coins glittering in the sun.

"Here." Ursula handed me a penny, "It's tradition to toss one in your first day. Make a wish."

"Okay."

I closed my eyes.

 _Let this day go quickly_ , I thought, then flipped the coin. It landed in the water with a gentle plop and then drifted down to rest atop the countless others.

Ursula patted my shoulder.

"I think I know what you wished for. Don't you worry, Amy. You're going to have _so_ many friends now. We're like a family, really. We work together and relax together and sit together in the dining hall." Her smiled widened, "Isn't that fab? You get to join the Patrol table now!"

I felt my heart sink a little bit. I hadn't thought about that.

"I don't have to sit there all the time, do I?" I asked, in rather a pathetic voice.

Ursula gave me a funny look.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

I twisted the end of one of my braids around my finger, wishing I hadn't asked.

"It's just...I'd still like to able to sit with my friends, sometimes."

"Your friends? Oh, you mean Gemma and Dove and...that one guy. Bertram?"

"Bernard."

"Right. I mean you'll still get to see them, but maybe right now you should focus on meeting new people. Try to get in with a new crowd. Our crowd." She winked and nudged me, "Plenty of cute boys in Patrol, too, you know. Now, c'mon, lots of people to meet."

She giggled and took my arm before I could explain that I was still at the age where adjectives like cute were reserved for kittens and babies and not the opposite sex.

Ursula lead me over to a semi-circle of sofas where three boys were currently lounging. I stiffened as I recognized the long cheddar hair belonging to Felix. Ever since the incident in the dining hall, I had taken to avoiding even the sight of him. If I saw him coming down the hallway, I would slip through the nearest door and wait for him to pass. In areas like the dining hall, my first priority was always pinpointing his location to ensure I could keep myself as distant as possible. I knew I'd have to face him again if I ever made Patrol, but I had always shoved the worry to the back of my mind whenever it cropped up. Now, as Ursula lead me towards him, my stomach twisted itself in knots and I silently berated myself for not dwelling more on the worry, if only to allow myself to come up with a feasible solution.

"Archie, Eric, Felix, be gentlemen and say hello to one of our new recruits." Ursula placed her hand on my shoulder, "You know. Amelia Ruth?"

We'd reached the sofas. Felix turned from talking with Archie, but I needn't have gotten myself so worked up. His eyes passed carelessly over me, as if he had never seen me before in his life and didn't think he'd ever see me again, then he let loose a loud belch.

" _Felix Rimswald_!" Ursula stepped in front of me, as if to shield me from the effects of his rude gesture, and put her hands on her hips.

"Sorry, Urs, what'd you say 'bout being a gentleman?" Felix practically slurred as he scratched his stomach. He snickered and elbowed Eric, who looked even more revolted than Ursula.

"Shuttup, ginger-locks." Archie slumped lower in his seat, his thin neck sinking into his shoulders. He was Head Boy and was probably one of the cute boys Ursula had in mind. At least, all the other girls were always twittering over him. I had to admit, out on the football field he was pretty impressive to watch, but anytime else he seemed too lethargic to even hold his head upright. As if to suddenly prove me wrong, he bobbed his head in my direction, his wavy mauve taupe fringe tumbling over his left eye, and waved.  
"Hullo, new girl."

"Hello." I said, in as polite a voice as I could manage. I liked the name "new girl" even less then Amy.

Archie brushed the hair out of his eye, in a gesture I supposed was carefully calculated to induce swooning. He gave me a lazy, lopsided smile and his hair fell back into place.

"Relax. I don't bite."

"She's a bit shy." Ursula chipped in helpfully.

"Good afternoon." Eric added, in his typical snobbish tone. He was thin and trim and neat and pasty, as usual. The fact that he tried to make himself seem impressive with his arrogant, know-it-all manner only ever managed to emphasize the opposite. "We've met before, but I'll happily reintroduce myself. Eric Hilberg, dormitory assistant."

I shook his outstretched hand.

"Hello." I repeated.

Archie turned his one visible eye to Ursula, who was still frowning. His finger tapped against the sofa's armrest.

"So we got initiation tonight, Urs?"

Felix sat up straighter, his braces glinting.

"That's right. I almost forgot," He popped his meaty knuckles, "Old Boniface is afraid of spiders, isn't he?"

"Spiders?" I asked.

"You scared of them too, Ruth? All the better." Felix swatted Eric, "I remember what a sop you were. Didn't you knock Ursula over trying to get back upstairs?"

Eric's face turned red.

"Sorry about that, Ursula." he mumbled.

Ursula rolled her eyes.

"Enough, boys. Vivian wanted me to remind you to be in the cellar _before_ midnight this time. It wouldn't kill you to arrive fifteen minutes early, you know."

"We'll be there, Urs." Archie reassured her, stretching his legs out on the coffee table.

"We wouldn't dream of missing it." Felix added, in a voice that was not at all to my liking.

"Good." Ursula linked her arm through mine, "Come on, Amy, plenty more people to meet. And we've got to get your assignments figured out."

I looked back at the three boys as we started across the room.

"What were they talking about, initiation?"

"Oh," Ursula waved her hand dismissively, "Nothing to worry about. Just a little ceremony we do to induct new members. It's all for fun."

"But what did Felix mean-"

"Ah, there's Greta and Garret!"

I spent the next hour or so being introduced by Ursula to the other patrollers as they arrived at the school in a steady trickle. Classes would not begin until tomorrow and so this day was mainly one for getting unpacked and settled in. Having completed both these items, and with no other tasks to attend to, most of the patrollers retreated to the lounge to meet up with friends and unwind. Soon an array voices and their accompanying footsteps were reverberating off every wall, filling the room until the fountain's own one-sided conversation was completely drowned out.

I was feeling a bit drowned myself, having just about had it with saying hello and nodding my head at inane questions, when a girl raced up to Ursula and grabbed her arm.

"Ursula, you've got to come quick."

The girl was Vivian's other dorm assistant, Juliet, also Ursula's best friend. She had a high-pitched voice and always wore an inordinate amount of garish make-up that made one wonder if she was practicing abstract art using her own face as the canvas.

Ursula remained rooted in place as Juliet tugged, looking at her friend with a patient expression a mother might give a whiny child.

"I'm showing Amy around right now. Amelia Ruth?"

"Oh. Right. Her." Juliet gave me a one-second glance, then returned to pulling on Ursula's arm.

"This is an emergency. I need you to help me get all my suitcases up the stairs."

"Okay, Jules, just a minute."

"No, now! My clothes are going to get all wrinkled if they sit there for too long." Juliet wrinkled her own nose.

"How many did you bring _this_ time?"

"Only five, but they're super heavy. Mum and dad got me so many nice things for Christmas I just had to bring them all."

"Give me one more minute, alright?"

Juliet finally let go of Ursula's arm.

"Fine. I'll be waiting right here." She planted her feet and crossed her arms, shooting me a glare.

Ursula lead me over to two large bulletin boards nailed side-by-side to the wall. They were covered in all manner of papers: schedules, calendars, checklists, reminders, and, dominating almost the entire left board, a large map of the school, dotted with different colored pins.

"This is our center of operations. It's a little overwhelming at first, but once you understand our system you won't have any troubles, I promise."

My eyes picked up on a sheet of paper in the bottom right corner of one of the boards. The top read "Special Assignments" and a number of names were scrawled below, including Vivian's.

"What are special assignments?" I asked.

"Hmm? Right. Sometimes Professor Rosen will have extra jobs she needs us to do. The highest ranking patrollers usually get those. I've done a few myself," She winked. "Top secret."

Ursula glanced at Juliet, who was now tapping her foot.

"We can get all the details sorted out later, but you're going to need to pick a permanent assignment. We rotate dining hall duty and night patrol, oh, but you're only a junior, so you won't have to worry about that yet."

"Night patrol?"

"We patrol the school hallways around the clock." Ursula explained.

"Oh." Had I known that? I wasn't surprised, anyway. It seemed just the sort of tight measure Rosen would implement in order to keep an eye on things.

"Anyway, we all have a permanent assignment, as well." Ursula put a hand over her chest, "I'm dorm assistant, as you know, Greta and Garret are the welcoming committee, Lily over there patrols hallways during the day, and so forth."

She scanned the bulletin boards.

"Let's see. We still have a few openings for hallway patrol, study hall... and looks like they need another patroller in the library."

"The library?"

"Yes. We've got Tory and Vern placed there already, but Ms. Giltwing's been pestering Professor Rosen for another assistant." She turned to me, "Sound like something you'd be interested in?"

"Yes, actually-"

"Oh, Ursulaaah."

Ursula glanced at Juliet again with a hint of exasperation.

"Fab. Look, I've got to go." She started across the room, calling over her shoulder, "Just go to the library and tell Ms. Giltwing Professor Rosen sent you. She'll be just thrilled. We'll talk more later."

She reached Juliet and the two girls hurried from the lounge to go rescue the clothing languishing at the bottom of the steps.

I turned back to the bulletin boards, relieved to finally have a moment alone, but after a few minutes of staring at the mural of papers and pins my eyes began to swim. I glanced out the window. The sun had dipped below the trees, its light mellowing from gold to honey orange, turning the water in the fountain into liquid topaz. I would puzzle out the boards later. I needed to head to the library before it closed for the evening.

I exited the lounge and headed out of the west wing, in the direction of the school's central building. Passing the stairs to the girls' dormitories on my way, I ran straight into Gemma as she cleared the last step. Before I could say anything, she squealed and threw her arms around me, giving me a rib-crushing hug.

"Amelia! Where've you been!? It's so good to see you! How was your holiday!? I still can't believe you're a patroller now! That's so weird! But amazing! But weird!"

"Ech," Was all I managed to get out as the air was squeezed from my lungs.

"Oh, sorry. Heh." Gemma released me from her tight grip.

"I was in the patroller lounge. With Ursula." I said, as I caught my breath, "She was showing me around, trying to officially introduce me to everyone."

"Is it as glorious as they say?"

"What?"

"The lounge? Is it glorious?"

The sunlight from a nearby window glinted off of Gemma's glasses, providing a twin to the glint in her own eyes.

"It is pretty fancy. And huge. I guess it's no wonder the dorms are so small."

"Wow. Can you sneak me in there sometime?"

"Erm, maybe?" I shrugged, "Anyway, I have to get to the library. That's where I'm going to be patrolling or whatever."

"Ooh, I'll come with you. I just finished unpacking."

We started down the corridor together.

"So, how was your Christmas?" Gemma asked.

I thought for a moment.

"It was quiet, but that's how I like it."

Christmas was usually a small affair for my family. Extended travel tended to wear my granddad out, so we stayed home and didn't do much of anything other then the quiet little hobbies we each favored. For my grandad and I this meant chess, of course. We challenged one another to match after match as we consumed a whole tin of butter biscuits. After becoming disillusioned with his ongoing bird house project, my father would inevitably dig out an old cookbook or two and try to make some sort of seasonal dish as a special present for my mum. Later, she had to sample it and cheerfully do her best to ignore how burnt, over-seasoned, or saturated with brandy it was. She was very good at it, actually.

"A quiet Christmas," Gemma shook her head, "I can't even imagine. My family turns into lunatics around Christmas. Okay, so dad bring home a dog Christmas day. It's this huge dog, like a mastiff or something, like a mastiff mutt, and he has it dressed up as a reindeer. Guess how well that turned out? He knocks over the Christmas tree. Then he tries to jump on the table and eat the mashed potatoes. Not the turkey. We were all thinking what in the world kind of dog is this, eating potatoes? My mum was livid. And then Sherman and Davey tried riding on his back..."

I listened with a mixture of amusement and disbelief as Gemma recounted her family's antics the whole way to the library. Apart from the most recent canine addition to the family, she had a younger sister and two younger brothers. Her parents were quite the characters themselves, which added up to a loud and lively household that provided Gemma with an endless supply of anecdotes. Although I loved listening to her talk about her family, her stories always reminded me of my own status as an only child. Something like a sliver of jealousy would start to work its way inside of me, one with an edge sharpened by guilt and loneliness and all the memories of a time I would much rather forget, but Gemma's cheerfulness and my own resolve to ignore it helped to keep the sliver tiny and ineffectual.

When we finally reached the library, Gemma was still going full-force and continued to whisper furiously to me something about a rancid fruitcake as we walked through the labyrinth of shelves to the reception desk.

"Amelia, Gemma, over here."

We stopped half-way and looked about, finally spotting Clive sitting at a far table stacked with books, waving at us. Beside him was Bernard, almost swallowed by the enormous open tome he held in front of him.

Gemma reached the boys first, skirting the table and throwing her arms around both their shoulders.

"And how are my two favorite gents? Good holiday?"

"Yes, thanks, Gemma. And you?" Clive said, looking up at her with an amused expression. He appeared to be telling the truth, considering how much better he looked compared to any given day last term. There were no longer dark rings around his eyes, which, in turn, were keen and bright as if relieved to be free from their shadowy prisons. He smiled easily, readily, and for once he had managed to get his unruly hair under control, at least to a certain degree.

I wondered, not for the first time, about Clive's living situation. I knew, thanks to Felix, he was an orphan (I'd never dared to ask him about the circumstances that lead to the status), but that was the extent of my knowledge of his life outside of Dreycott. Did he have any siblings of his own? Did he live with relatives or had he been adopted by strangers? Whoever they were, they must have been fairly affluent to send Clive to Dreycott (then again, _I_ was at Dreycott and my family was frugal enough to frequent second-hand shops). Whatever the case, seeing him now with his appearance so altered allowed me perhaps a small peek at his home life. Whoever provided for him, whoever he addressed his letters to, I had a feeling he was at his happiest when he was with them and that this happiness was so strong, so secure, it lingered even after he left home.

"Chaos. Beautiful chaos." Gemma said in answer to Clive's question, "And you, Trewinkle?"

Bernard lowered his book and glared up at Gemma. He looked the same as always, low eyebrows, pinched scowl, his large ears flushing pink at the sound of his name.

"What is this an interrogation? Stop touching me." he grumbled, trying to pry Gemma's hand from off his shoulder.

"What about you, Amelia?" Clive asked me as Gemma straightened, releasing the boys from her grip.

"Nothing too exciting happened, but, honestly, it felt good to be bored at home again." I said, returning his smile.

Clive nodded.

"I know exactly what you mean."

"I don't." Bernard added in a dour voice.

Gemma clicked her tongue.

"Aw, someone forgot to take their sunshine pill today." She cocked her head at him, "What? Your dad put coal in your stocking?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Bernard grumbled.

"You're the one who brought it up."

" _Anyway_ ," Clive said, "Bernard and I were just trying to get some research in before dinner."

"What are you researching?" I asked.

"Dead ends and duff leads." Bernard replied.

Clive sighed.

"It's nothing more then a hunch right now," He lowered his voice, "It might not even have anything to do with the Statue, but it's something perplexing...something that's been bothering me for a while now."

"Sounds mysterious." Gemma said, "Do tell."

Clive glanced around the library.

"Not here. If we turn anything up, we can talk later." Clive gave me a significant look, "In fact, I'm sure we'll have lots to talk about if you're here for the reason I'm thinking of."

His eyebrows were raised.

"Yes, I'm going to ask Ms. Giltwing about the book in the special collection." I said, dropping my voice, "But I've also decided to help out here. Apparently, they need another patroller."

"Excellent." Clive said, "That should give you plenty of opportunities to do some research of your own."

"Exactly what I was thinking."

"Speaking of which," Clive reached down beside his chair and rummaged through his messenger bag, finally coming up with a small notebook that looked just like the one he used, but had a red cover instead of blue.

"You probably won't be able to take that book out of the viewing room, so I thought you could take notes in this. "

He handed it to me. I flipped through the blank lined pages.

"Perfect. Thank you."

"It's my extra, but go ahead and keep it."

Gemma's eyes widened as she stared at the notebook.

"Whoa. Matching notebooks? I want one."

Clive smiled, then glanced up at Gemma and realized she was serious.

"Sorry, Gemma. I don't have any others."

"That's alright. I'm sure I have a spare one somewhere," she turned to Bernard, "And we'll find one for you too, Trewinkle. Then we'll be..." She suddenly raised her index finger, a wide smile spreading across her face, " _The Notebook Gang_!"

Bernard made a sound between a snort and a cough. Clive's eyes narrowed in confusion, his mouth open, as if he were trying to figure out why he had just been slapped in the face with a fish. I hid a grin behind my hand.

"What?" Gemma asked, folding her arms as she looked at the three of us in turn, her smile fading into a pout, "If this is to be a proper investigation we need a proper name for our group."

"But the Notebook Gang?" Bernard said, "That's just childish."

"Oh, it's childish?" Gemma bent down, looking him full in the face, "Hmm, okay, what's your idea for our very _mature_ , very _sophisticated_ group?"

He rolled his eyes.

"We don't need a name."

"We can, er, brainstorm ideas later, Gemma." Clive said, in a conciliatory tone.

"Okay, but until then its the Notebook Gang. Or how about..." Gemma paused as she muttered under her breath, "Dorumutrew. It's the first two letters of all our last names, except you Trewinkle, you get to have four letters, you lucky dog. Does that make you happy?"

"This whole conversation makes me very _unhappy_."

I glanced up at the clock.

"I'd better go talk to Ms. Giltwing before it gets too late."

Clive snapped his fingers.

"Oh, before I forget, the book we're looking for is titled _A Brief History of Dreycott School_."

I slipped my new notebook into my bag.

"Got it."

"We'll meet up after dinner, then. Share any findings."

"The first official meeting of the Dorumutrew Notebook Gang!" Gemma cheered, "I'll bring snacks!"

Bernard buried his head in his hands.

"Just kill me."

With a final wave at the three of them, I continued on to the reception desk. It was currently unmanned. I rang the bell and, after a minute or so, a thin woman stepped out of the back room.

Ms. Giltwing looked like many things, but a head librarian was not one of them. Perpetually tan, with a shock of white hair trimmed in a stylish pixie cut, her large rhinestone sunglasses perched on her brow, she looked like she had just stepped off a cruise ship, back from an extended stay in Tahiti or the French Riviera. She wore outfits with bold and gaudy patterns, fuchsia cheetah print jackets or gold and purple striped pants were typical, always accompanied by large pieces of faux jewelry. Her rubies, sapphires, diamonds, gold rings, and bracelets were all so obviously made of plastic they might have been plucked from a child's dress-up box. Ms. Giltwing wore each piece as if it were a family heirloom.

"Amelia," she said, as she reached the desk, her wide smile piling up wrinkles on either cheek. She took my hand between her two jewel studded ones. "Welcome back. I hope your holiday was sufficiently diverting?"

"Yes, thank you."

Having no children of her own and, thus, no grandchildren to spoil, Ms. Giltwing invested any and all maternal instincts she possessed doting on the library's most frequent patrons, myself included. No matter how hectic a state the library was in, she always managed to find a moment to chat to each of us and ask how our classes were going or what we were currently reading. Of course, she did expect a favor or two in return. In most cases, it was attentively listening to all of the troubles she accrued pursuing wealthy gentlemen, an ongoing narrative that sounded like it was lifted straight from the most hackneyed of soap operas.

"At least one of us, then." Ms. Giltwing waved her hand, the cherry-sized ruby on her pinky catching the last rays of sun, "But I won't bore you with the details right now. Suffice to say, Mr. Jingles and I spent a rather dreary Christmas all to ourselves reading Kafka. Felicitations on making Patrol, by the way."

"That's actually what I came here to talk to you about."

"Don't tell me," Ms. Giltwing clasped a hand to her heart, "Is Rosen finally lending me another of her patrollers? Oh, thank the heavenly galaxies."

I smiled.

"I've been assigned to help out here, if that's what you mean."

"That's exactly what I mean." Ms. Giltwing turned towards the backroom, "Come, love, there's something I need to show you."

I stepped around the desk and followed her through a small office and into another room, pitch black.

"Just a moment."

Ms. Giltwing flipped a switch and several dangling light bulbs flickered on overhead, scantily illuminating a space that was far larger than I had initially thought. I stepped farther into the room, trying to make out the cairn-like shapes that loomed all around me. The room was packed wall to wall with stacks of books and towers of boxes, some taller then a full-grown man and leaning dangerously to the side. I peered into a nearby box and saw they contained even more books, old books with stained, cloth-bound covers and pages weathered to shades of musty vanilla. The scents of old glue and dust and the general rot of paper permeated everything.

"It's like a whole other library." I said, my eyes drifting to the far end of the room where the stacks disappeared into shadow.

Ms. Giltwing put her hands on her hips.

"Yes, it does look that way doesn't it? This has been my pet project for...oh, the last ten years or so?" She rolled her eyes, "As you can clearly see, I haven't made much progress. I've been on Rosen's case asking for a full-time assistant, but it's always 'There's the budget to think about, Eva'. 'You can get along just fine with the patrollers, Eva.' Fine, dear, I say, just give me another patroller then. Looks like she finally decided to have mercy on me."

"So, now you'll have more time to work on your project?"

"Precisely. And I would like you to help me."

"Erm, what is your project exactly?"

Ms. Giltwing spread her arms wide.

"Cataloguing all these books. Getting them ready for proper shelf life. Poor things. Some are so mistreated they've been devoured by mold, those just need tossed, others, maybe, could be salvaged." She picked up a nearby book and caressed the spine, looking forlorn, "All that remains of one of the most prized collections in London."

My eyes widened in surprise.

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. All of these books were originally a part of the Dreycott family's private library. Arthur Rosen purchased the collection around the same time he bought the school. Unfortunately, the head librarian at the time had enough to do trying to get the school's own massive collection sorted out. And so all these books have been sitting here for years. Precious works collecting dust and mouse droppings." She clutched at her heart, "For every librarian, the loss of even a single book entrusted into her care is the moral equivalent of murder. So, I ask, what does that make me?"

"Do you-do you know much about the Dreycotts, Ms. Giltwing?" I asked, curious to know more about the family (and because I had no idea how to answer her question).

Ms. Giltwing set down her book.

"The Dreycotts? As much as anyone, I suppose. Why?"

I fiddled with my sash.

"I'm just curious. They used to run the school, right?"

"Yes, but that's not all. For a time they were one of the city's most powerful and influential families." Ms. Giltwing's eyes shown under the dim lights as she clasped her hands, "They had their fingers in all sorts of fine pies. Politics, art, the scientific community, and of course, education. This school was always their most important priority. And under their authority, it was even more exclusive than it is now."

"How so?"

"Dreycott School used to accept only the brightest, the most exceptional and gifted pupils. Prodigies and geniuses from around the world were sent invitations. Young men and women with the most incredible minds. They say the puzzles one had to solve just to get accepted were enough to make the average adult dizzy. Oh, but everyone who was everyone wanted their child to attend. It was _the_ premier school." Ms. Giltwing shrugged her bony shoulders as she twisted one of her bracelets round her wrist. "Now look at it." she mumbled.

"It's funny, I've never really heard of the Dreycotts before."

The head librarian nodded sadly.

"Yes, their time certainly has come and gone, hasn't it? Slipped into black obscurity. Always very private about their own affairs, but apparently they made a number of bad investments. Or maybe they stretched themselves too thin, who knows? Lost everything. Had to sell their library, their school...everything. All they had left," Ms. Giltwing laughed grimly, "Was a cloud of _unsavory_ rumors."

"Rumors?" I knew I should be taking notes, but the librarian's words had me riveted in place.

"Well, yes." Ms. Giltwing began sorting through the contents of a box, "When you're as rich and powerful as the Dreycotts were you collect rumors like a dog collects fleas. And enemies too, for that matter." Ms. Giltwing paused, "That said, the rumors surrounding the Dreycott family were even more outrageous than one might expect."

She leaned closer to me, her voice becoming a conspiratorial whisper.

"Some say the Dreycotts ruled London's underbelly from the shadows. Others that they were part of some sort of ancient secret society. They were the keepers of some extraordinary secret, that much is certain." She shook her head, her voice returning to its former tone, "Someone really should write a novel about them. Probably make a fortune."

She cleared her throat.

"That aside, Amelia, would you be willing to help a glamorous old spinster like myself sort through this collection? You'd be working back here mostly, not out front, so not much occasion to boss your schoolmates around, I'm afraid. I know how you patrollers do so enjoy that." She winked.

"I think I'd prefer to be back here, actually." I said, "And I'd love to take a closer look at some of these books, if that would be alright."

"Certainly. But don't worry about starting today. It's getting on to dinner."

I followed Ms. Giltwing out of the backroom and around the front desk.

"Before I go, Ms. Giltwing, I have one more a question."

"Yes?"

"Is it true that the Patrol has access to the special collection?"

"Oh! Yes, I forgot to mention that. It's a royally idiotic rule if you ask me. Not many patrollers ever pop in and so the collection languishes. It does have some beautiful first editions. But Rosen is very strict about the whole thing."

"Would-would it be alright if I could take a quick peek now?"

Ms. Giltwing glanced at the clock sitting on her desk.

"Certainly, love, I don't see why not. Oh, but you have to sign something first."

She opened a large binder sitting on the desk and flipped through it until she found the form I had to sign.

After doing so, I followed her as she wound her way with ease through the shelves until we reached an ornate wooden door set into the wall behind the historical section. Taking a ring of keys from her pocket, Ms. Giltwing sorted through them until she found one that seemed satisfactory. She fit the key in the lock and shoved the door open with a strong push. Its hinges creaked in protest as if they had been woken from a long nap.

"Spend as long as you want in there. I've got some bookkeeping to do before I close up."

"Thank you."

I stepped into the room and let the door click shut behind me. The place was like a smaller version of the library, with two chairs tucked into a single table, surrounded by four built-in bookcases that covered almost the entire wall space. The library's own blend of must and cinnamon lingered in the air, only it was intensified in such a small, enclosed space. A better scent then the backroom's, at least.

I took a deep breath, savoring the moment. I was here at last. So much of my studying and worrying and striving last term had been undergone just so that I could enter this tiny room and find an even tinier book that maybe, _maybe_ , held a clue to the school's secrets. Since agreeing to try out for Patrol, I had never really let myself contemplate how Clive's plan was nothing if not a long shot in the middle of a dark sea. Now, I felt myself wavering as I recalled my exhausting introduction to the world of Dreycott's elite earlier that afternoon. Was it all going to be worth whatever tidbit might be found buried within an unknown expanse of pages? I wasn't sure yet. I would just have to find the book and see for myself.

Starting near the door, I slowly made my way around the room, examining each shelf carefully, searching for _A Brief History of Dreycott School_. After scanning two entire walls, I finally spotted it on the third, a dark blue book, tall and thin, on the highest shelf, its title printed in silver. I slid it out and sat down at the table, gently flipping through its glossy pages. It looked to contain mostly black and white photos of the school, labeled with captions, but there were also a few lengthy portions of text scattered throughout. A photo of the fountain flashed before my eyes and I stopped, turning back pages until I found it again.

This was it. Finally. Taking out my notebook and pencil, I settled back into a chair and started reading.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**The Story So Far...**

 _Her first day back at Dreycott after the winter holiday, Amelia is shown the patroller lounge by Ursula and is assigned to work in the library. Her new status as a patroller also gives her access to the library's special collection. There, Amelia is finally able to examine a book on Dreycott's history that Clive believes may contain a crucial clue to their ongoing investigation of the Sentient Statue..._

 **Chapter** **Eleven**

Dinner that evening produced in me feelings of a very mixed sort. On the one hand, I wanted it to be over as soon as possible. On the other, I was dreading the meeting that Clive, Gemma, Bernard, and I had agreed to hold afterwards. The reasons for my ambivalence were simple: new table and a notebook nearly as white and blank as the moon.

My new table, of course, was the patrollers' table. It would have been like any other in the dining hall, save for its occupants' claim of superiority, which was supported by nothing more then their own presence and validated only by the envious looks that some pupils shot in the table's direction.

As I sat quietly eating between Ursula and Lily, listening to the conversations that sprouted up and down the table's two long benches, it became increasingly apparent to me that there was a clearly delineated hierarchy, even (or perhaps especially) among the Patrol. Vivian was at the top, which was really no surprise. She commandeered every discussion and her good opinion was both highly sought and rarely given. The close second was Felix. He and Vivian sat opposite one another for no reason but to thwart the other's attempts at winning the support of the rest of the group. It was a battle I suspected had been going on for quite some time and had evolved into a source of amusement and competition for the other patrollers, many of whom had long-since chosen sides.

The main topic of conversation that evening happened to be Professor Xander.

"He thinks he's above the rules and above Professor Rosen." Vivian was saying to a cluster of nodding heads as she stirred her tea, "If I were her, I'd fire him. It's insubordination."

Three seats down from where I was sitting, Felix scoffed.

"You only hate him 'cause he ratted you out to Rosen." He grinned and shoved a bite of roast into his mouth, adding between chomps, "Put a nasty splotch all over your _perfectly pristine_ record, didn't it?"

Vivian closed her eyes as she took a sip of her tea, unperturbed.

"What did he report her for?" A patroller whispered loudly to Felix.

Vivian's eyes snapped open and immediately locked onto the boy in the form of a frightening glare. The patroller ducked his head, looking sheepish.

"I'll tell you." Felix swallowed and stood, spreading his arms wide, "Listen up, everyone, you'll want to hear this."

Vivian rolled her eyes as Felix settled back into his seat. Everyone's attention at the table was now wholly directed on the two of them, forks set aside and food forgotten.

"I did nothing wrong." Vivian said to the entire table. She raised her chin high so that her sharp nose pointed ceiling-ward, "He simply misinterpreted what he saw."

"She snitched his wallet."

"Wrong." Vivian sniffed, "I was merely verifying his identity."

"It's _Antony Xander,_ Queen V." Felix said, "Everyone knows what he looks like." He paused and snickered, "At least everyone over the age of fifty."

Near Vivian, Stewart's eyes widened. He turned to the Head Girl.

"You think he's an imposter?"

"There's something highly suspicious about him." Vivian replied, "We should all be on our guard."

Felix snorted.

"Here we go again. Listen, I've no great love for the bloke. But he acts like a smug, sad little washed up actor 'cause that's exactly what he is. You can't fake that kind of pathetic. I say let him stay, his name is good for the school, if nothing else. And if his head starts swelling up too big, I know just how to pop it."

Felix speared a potato with his fork and held it up, rolling the handle between his fingers with an expression of anticipatory malice.

"I'm with Vivian." Trevor put in, "He needs to go. He's always making us the butt of his jokes."

"Which, in your case, isn't that difficult, mate." Felix said, causing a few sniggers on his side of the table.

"Archie's with me, too." Vivian said, latching onto her boyfriend's arm, "Aren't you, Archie?"

Archie looked as though he had just awoken from cryogenic sleep.

"Whatever you say, dear." he mumbled.

Vivian giggled.

"Shut up. You can't say that until we're married."

"I think Felix's right. I mean what other school has a teacher as famous as Antony Xander? It's great publicity." Ursula said.

"It's stupid." Lily chipped in. She had long since pushed her tray aside, food scarcely touched, in favor of dissecting a large package of toffee.

Ursula turned to me, "What do you think, Amy?"

I nearly choked on my mouthful of potato. All eyes were turning in my direction and my mind reacted in its usual fashion, shutting down and leaving me hemming like an idiot.

"Er..."

My darting eyes landed on Lily, just as she pulled free a stringy piece of toffee. The crinkling of the cellophane wrapper finally loosened words from my throat.

"Have you-maybe you should talk to Professor Rosen. See what she thinks."

It was the vaguest and safest thing I could think to say. I did not want to risk picking a side, not when I wasn't yet sure whether I'd prefer Vivian or Felix for an enemy.

My voice was soft, but Vivian's frown confirmed she had heard me.

"The professor is far too busy to be troubled with matters like that."

"Far too busy to talk to her favorite?" Felix asked, "And what do you mean 'matters like that'? I thought you said it was insubordination."

Vivian's cheeks colored, swallowing her freckles.

"Fine. Tomorrow, Felix, you and I will go and talk to her. Voice our concerns."

Felix stood, grabbing his tray.

"And I'll watch her laugh in your face as she refutes your barmy theories."

"We'll see."

Felix turned to leave, a few of his friends grabbing their own trays and following him. That was my cue.

I muttered something to Ursula about being tired and picked up my own dishes, trailing a good distance behind Felix and his cohorts. Handing my tray through the kitchen window, my eyes followed the pair of unfamiliar hands that received it up to an equally unfamiliar face. The newest member of the kitchen staff looked to be in his twenties with skin the color of Lily's toffee and a white blond quiff. He smiled and winked at me.

"Thanks, Braids."

I turned away without a word, finding his friendliness a tad creepy.

Exiting the dining hall, I made for the school's foyer. Before dinner, I had conversed briefly with Clive, Gemma, and Bernard on my way to the patroller table. We had decided to hold our meeting out on the steps leading up to the front entrance of the school, not because the weather was nice, but out of a desire for privacy.

As I walked, I was only too conscious of my school bag, my red notebook tucked inside. Every time it bumped my leg, I felt like stopping and going back to the dormitories instead of facing my three friends. I tried my best to ignore the urge, buttoning my jacket as I crossed the foyer and stepped out into the chilly evening.

It probably would have been fairly mild out when the sun was higher, but now that it had sunk behind the school, the front steps were left to brood in blue-gray shadows that seeped into my bones, draining out all the warmth I had received from the crowded dining hall and hot meal. Being outdoors when it was so miserable had one crucial advantage, however. Practically anywhere one went within the school one could expect to run into patrollers, either posted or passing through, always with perked ears and sharp eyes, even when dinner was in full swing. In contrast, not a single soul was to be seen out on the lawn that evening, save for the three figures in front of me, sitting on the steps.

"Sorry I'm late." I said as, I descended the first few steps and sat down.

Gemma cleared her throat.

"I call the first official meeting of the Notebook Gang to order."

Bundled up like an Arctic explorer, she wore heavy duty winter gear in various shades of purple: plum coat, lavender hat, raspberry scarf, magenta gloves, and so forth until she was a veritable walking palette. Only her bespectacled eyes and button nose could be seen peeping out from under her hat and hood, shining brightly above cheeks stung by the frosty air. She sat on the highest step, as if actually presiding over a meeting.

"Can we stop with this notebook nonsense?" Bernard asked. He was sitting at the bottom most step, ensuring he was as far from Gemma as possible, and seemed indifferent to the cold, his heavy brown jacket unbuttoned and flapping loosely in the stiff breeze.

Clive, sitting one step above me, sighed as he tapped the cover of his notebook, his expression one of studied patience. He was wearing a thick jumper made of green wool. A large "C" was stitched on the front, which made me smile despite my myself.

"You haven't come up with something better, have you?" Gemma returned. She began rooting around in her bag, "Besides, I hit the jackpot."

As the three of us leaned closer to get a better look, she pulled out a stack of four notebooks.

"I'd forgotten my gran got me these. They're a limited edition collector's set!"

She handed one to Clive.

"This one's for you."

Clive took the notebook and stared skeptically at the cover, eyebrows raised. It depicted a quaint illustration of a frog in a derby hat riding a bicycle.

"And this one's for you, Trewinkle."

She tossed Bernard a notebook featuring a weasel decked out as a gentleman with a top hat, monocle, and cane. It landed near his hand, but he didn't touch it. Instead, his trembling eyebrows furrowed into a dark, offended expression.

"Aren't they hilarious? Amelia, which one do you want, the owl or the hedgehog? I'll let you pick."

"Is this some kind of joke?" Bernard was glaring at Gemma now, "Do you seriously think we'd ever write in such abominations?"

"Bernard, relax." Clive slipped his frog notebook into his bag. I wondered if it would ever see the light of day again, "Thank you, Gemma, I can honestly say this is the most... limited edition gift I've ever received."

"Well, at least _one_ of you appreciates my sense of humor." Gemma said, "You're very welcome, Clive."

I picked up one of the remaining notebooks, shooting a glance and a smile at Bernard.

"Yes, thank you, Gemma. Now we really are the Notebook Gang."

"I don't believe this." Bernard grumbled, "I demand we vote on a new name that doesn't make me vomit."

"Let's forget the name for now," Clive said, "We've got a lot of ground to cover before curfew."

"Yes, let's do make this snappy. My toes are going numb." Gemma clicked her polka-dot boots together.

"My brain is going numb." Bernard muttered.

Clive turned to me.

"Amelia, start whenever you're ready."

The sight of Clive, Gemma, even Bernard, looking to me with such sudden eagerness made me feel like a deflated balloon. I didn't know what to say. I took out my notebook and began turning the pages, one by one, running my eyes over the scant notes I had taken in the special collection room. A moment of silence lapsed and then I looked up again.

"I didn't find much." I said quietly.

The anticipation in Clive's eyes faded into disappointment as his shoulders slowly sunk. Bernard shook his head.

"I knew we should never have gotten our hopes up."

"You found _something_ , though, right?" Gemma said, reaching down to put a gloved hand on my shoulder "That's still better then nothing."

"Most of it was information we already knew." I replied, "I'm sorry." My eyes dropped to my shoes.

"Don't apologize." Clive said, trying his best to sound cheerful. His words faded and I watched out of the corner of my eye as he tugged at a loose thread on his jumper, his gaze drifting to a point far across the lawn. If we really were a group, or a gang, or whatever you'd like to call it, then Clive was our leader. There was no doubt about that. He had started this investigation and now we waited for him to point us in a direction that wouldn't lead to its sudden end. When he finally turned back to me, however, it was only to produce a helpless shrug. "Just read what you've got and we'll try and make do."

"Wait," Gemma said, "Maybe it would help if we went over the case really fast? Like, a refresher?"

The suggestion seemed to revivify Clive.

"Good idea, Gemma. It's always helpful to review." He flipped open his notebook and cleared his throat, "Last summer term, three pupils on three separate occasions encountered an entity I've since labeled the Sentient Statue in the school's rotunda. Said statue resembled the one that's a part of the fountain right over there. A statue of Hyacinth Dreycott."

He paused as we all took a moment to gaze at the fountain and its lonely occupant, sitting in the middle of a sea of dead grass. The fountain's trickle of water had long since frozen, forming a delicate pillar of ice from the lip of the stone vase held in Hyacinth's hands down to the low basin.

"And the statue made each person see whatever they were most afraid of." Gemma piped up.

"Right. After glimpsing the statue, each of the three pupils were thrown into their own tailor-made nightmare, as it were, right there in the rotunda. The incidents caused two pupils to leave the school permanently, while of course, Bernard, the first one to see the statue, is right here with us."

"You don't say." Bernard said, rubbing his nose. It was turning red as a strawberry.

"So Amelia joined the Patrol so she could gain access to the library's special collection so she could read a book about...?"

"About the history of the school." I said. I looked down at my notes, "The one of a kind book was commissioned to commemorate the school's reopening after Arthur Rosen purchased it more than fifty years ago." I glanced up, "It was mostly pictures of the school's architecture, but there were a few short informational bits in between. Including one on the fountain."

"But nothing we didn't already know?" Clive reiterated.

"Well, like we guessed the fountain was built to honor the memory of Hyacinth Dreycott. She was the daughter of Sidney Dreycott, former headmaster. The few paragraphs mainly talk about the details on the fountain and the dedication ceremony that was held."

"Oh?"

"Here. I'll read you what it said." I bent over my notebook, "'On June 1st, the entire school body was present for the unveiling of the fountain, a little over a year after Hyacinth's passing. After speaking briefly on his daughter, Mr. Dreycott switched the fountain's pump on for the first time, releasing a delicate cascade of water that continues to this day.'"

"That is beautiful." Gemma said.

"But useless." Bernard countered, "We might as well go in now. No point allowing our noses to fall off."

"Speak for yourself. Some of us came prepared." Gemma remarked, ruffling her scarf.

"You're the one who wanted us to _do make this snappy_." Bernard clicked his shoes together. He stood up and folded his arms.

"Clive?"

"June 1st." Clive was muttering as he paged through his notebook, "June 1st...Amelia do you still have that rubbing?"

"Yes. I think so."

I rummaged through my bag until my hand closed around the folded rubbing of the fountain's engraving I had done last term. I handed it to Clive who quickly unfolded it and smoothed the paper, scanning the words.

"Hyacinth died May 14th."

"Just three days before her seventeenth birthday." I said, quietly.

"That's awful, but also poetic in a sort of deliciously morbid way," Gemma mused.

Bernard rolled his eyes.

"Three days." Clive was saying, "She was born May 17th."

"That's right."

"May 14th. May 17th. Right here on the rubbing." Clive was staring at the paper as if he were in a daze, "And just now...you said June 1st."

"Um, Clive?" Bernard's brow was knitted. He slowly sunk back down onto his step.

"Of course. Why didn't I see this before? Idiot." He finally set the rubbing down on his lap, "Bernard, do you remember what day it was you saw the Statue?"

"Er..." Bernard tugged his ear.

"Never mind. I've got it here." Clive flipped, almost frantically, through his notebook until he finally stopped at a page near the middle. He grinned as he read what he had written, "May 14th. The evening of May 14th, you encountered the Statue."

I sat up straighter, finally understanding what Clive was getting at.

"What about Colin and, er, that other girl?" I asked, trying to remember the names of the other two pupils who had seen the Statue.

Clive continued flipping through his notebook.

"Colin and Edith. Colin saw the Statue May 17th. And Edith..." he tapped the page, "Yes, here it is. Yes. June 1st."

"So, the Statue's appearances align with Hyacinth's birth, death, and..."

"And the unveiling of the fountain!" Gemma cried.

"Which means," Clive continued, "It's no wonder the Statue hasn't shown up since last summer. If it's going to appear again, there's a very good chance it will appear on these three dates."

His words hung in the air as the four of us allowed the implications to settle.

"A spirit with a fixed schedule." Gemma said, "Interesting."

"So, what do we do?" Bernard said, looking to Clive with his usual intensity.

"We're going to see this statue for ourselves." Clive replied, "What else?"

"How did I know you were going to say that?"

"You don't think...you don't think we should tell someone?" I asked. I was feeling a little light-headed all of a sudden.

"Who can we trust?" Clive said, "Rosen? There's still the possibility that she could be involved in all this, somehow. Besides, if she knew we were actively investigating the Statue, she'd never let us out of her sight."

"If she didn't expel us first." Bernard added.

"That's true." Gemma said, "I still say it's either an honest-to-goodness cursed statue or else the Patrol is behind it. And if the Patrol is behind it, then Rosen is behind it for sure."

Clive was standing now, pacing up and down the steps, running a hand through his hair until it was as tousled as ever.

"Here's what we'll do, come next term. May 14th. We'll arrive at the rotunda around dinner time, find hiding places, and wait for the Statue and whoever it lures to show up."

"Hey, that's something that's been bothering me. How does the Statue get people to come to the rotunda?" Gemma asked, glancing at Bernard.

He shrugged his narrow shoulders.

"Don't ask me how it happened. Like I've said, I got turned around and ended up there by accident."

"Accident?" Gemma traced her glasses lens between two thick magenta fingers.

"We can worry about the details later. What we need to focus on is confronting this Statue and discovering who or what is behind it. One of us can get the person it lures to safety, the rest of us can surround the Statue. Catch it. We'll... lay a trap or something."

"Hold up, Clive. I'm not chasing after any statues. Not after what happened." Bernard said.

"I'll do it! I mean I'll be the one who rescues the poor sap lured by the Statue." Gemma jumped up, rubbing her gloved hands together.

"May 14th. It's still a long ways off." I said. The more we discussed the plan, the more uneasy I felt. The Statue hadn't seemed quite real before, but now that I was faced with the prospect of actually seeing it for myself in the not-so-distant future, I was truly grasping just how ghastly and unnatural it all sounded. How could it be true? It didn't matter if it was merely a trick. That only made it all the more terrible, that someone would concoct such a complex and twisted scheme. And to what end? It was disturbing to contemplate. I felt a sudden urge, not dissimilar to the one I had experience earlier, to get up and run. To pack my bags and leave Dreycott and never have to see or think about its dark exterior, it darker interior, ever again.

"Right." Clive was studying me as he spoke, "Like I said, let's not get into the details right now. We'll have plenty of time to make plans before then."

"So we just wait? Bleh. And here I thought this term was going to be excited." Gemma slumped back down onto her step.

"There's no help for it." Clive sat back down as well, but he continued to twist his pencil in his hand, powered by some frenetic energy. He sounded frustrated. Impatient. I knew if it were up to him he would have liked to confront the Statue right then and there.

I turned back to my own notebook, wanting to change the subject. It was ironic. We'd succeeded in our goal after all, yet now I almost wished we had failed.

"There is something else I learned." I said, flipping to my last filled page, "Something we might want to look into in the mean time. I'm not sure how much it relates to the Statue, but I think you'll find it interesting."

"What is it?" Clive had stopped twisting his pencil.

"Well, first Ms. Giltwing told me a little about the school's past when I asked her about the Dreycott's. Apparently, the school used to be extremely strict about who they let attend. Potential pupils had to solve puzzles in order to be accepted."

"What?" Gemma's eyes widened, "That's actually sort of cool."

"Yes, I've heard that before." Clive said, "And some of those puzzles are still in use. Like the puzzle Rosen used for the patroller exam."

"Right. And then when I was reading the book on Dreycott's history, there was a section that talked a bit about the puzzles. How they had set the school apart from all others or some sort of boast. Anyway, as an example, the book mentioned that silent riddle. You know, the one that blocks the entrance to your hideout?"

"What about it?" Clive asked.

I held up my notebook and pointed at a rather paltry pencil drawing.

"Sorry, I'm not very good, but the book had a diagram that showed the puzzle, the tunnel, and the little room at the end. See, the silent riddle is marked with a number one." I tapped the number, as Gemma and Bernard scooted closer to see, "But, for some reason, this wall in the room is marked with a number two. And look, there's another tunnel branching off from the wall. But then the diagram just ends."

"Did the book say anything about it?"

I lowered my notebook.

"This is what the caption under the diagram said, 'The start of one of the school's most famous and challenging series of puzzles, the Sapphire Cycle.'"

" _Series_ of puzzles?" Bernard said, his eyebrows lifting.

"So, you think that two stands for another puzzle?" Clive asked.

I nodded, then hesitated.

"But neither of you have ever noticed anything out of the ordinary down there?"

"No, but the place is so cluttered, it's possible we missed it. We'll just have to go down there sometime and search."

Gemma sighed.

"Why couldn't we have held our meeting down there?"

"Curfew." Clive reminded her, "We had too close of a call last time."

"Stupid curfew. Not even my little brothers have a seven o'clock curfew. You can't get anything done with a seven o'clock curfew."

Clive gave her wry smile.

"I think that's the point."

"Hmph." Gemma folded her arms.

I turned to Clive.

"Before I forget, did you two ever find what you were looking for in the library?"

"As a matter of fact, we did." Clive turned to Bernard, "You have the book with you, Bernard?"

Bernard opened his backpack and handed Clive a slender black book. I leaned closer and saw that the title read, _Unusual Arachnids_.

"You've been researching spiders?"

"I know it probably doesn't relate to the Statue, but you might have noticed our school has a bit of an infestation."

"Are you talking about that silver spider I tried to rescue last term?" I frowned, "I wouldn't call that an infestation."

"I've seen them in other places around the school before, but nowhere else. Not only that, but they're the _only_ kind of spider I've ever seen at Dreycott."

"And the school's crest has a silver spider." Bernard added, "Meaning they must have some sort of significance."

"What are you getting at?"

Clive flipped through the book.

"I don't know exactly. But it's all very strange...and it only gets stranger."

He flipped one last page and handed me the book.

"Look familiar?"

There was a detailed illustration of a metallic silver spider on the right page that looked exactly like the one that had been terrorizing Harper and Madge last term. On the opposite page was a short paragraph.

"Read what it says."

I did so, muttering the words quietly to myself.

"'Silver-backed spider (argentum aranea), native to Peru.'" I looked up, the words sinking in, "Peru? What's a spider from South America doing _here_?"

Clive tapped the page.

"Keep going."

"Discovered by naturalist, Edmund F. Rosen. Rosen!?" I looked up again, turning from Clive to Bernard and back again, "But what-what does it all mean?"

"Your guess is as good as ours." Clive said, "But it can hardly be a coincidence. I'm guessing there's more of a connection between the Dreycotts and Rosens then we originally thought."

"You're being awfully quiet, Mudget." Bernard remarked, and we all turned towards Gemma. She was hunched over, staring at her boots. Without looking up, she spoke, using a tone that was utterly un-Gemma like in its flatness.

"I just don't see what this has to do with the Statue."

"Maybe nothing." Clive admitted, "Then again, maybe everything. Someone named Rosen discovers a species of tropical spider that somehow winds up in a London boarding school with a headmistress named Rosen. Don't tell me your not curious to learn more."

"Curiosity curdled th' kitten, yeh know."

We all started as Amos Crimp melted out of the shadowy bushes to the left of the stairs. He wore a shabby overcoat, mud caked wellingtons, and his straw sun hat, which appeared droopy and wet.

We stared at him, too dumbstruck to say anything, as his eyes passed over each of us in turn.

"Heh, heh." He grinned and hobbled around to the base of the steps. "Wot're three kidlings and a..." He squinted at Gemma, buried in her layers of winter clothing, "... Purple puffball doin' out in th' cold?"

"You were listening in on our conversation," Bernard said crossly, "You should know."

The groundsman laughed again, a creaky, hoarse laugh that erupted into a coughing fit.

"No manners. Not a one."

"You're the one spying on us!" Bernard sputtered, "If that's not rude, I don't know what is!"

"Bernard, it's okay." I said. Having somewhat successfully spoken with Amos once before, I felt obligated to take the reigns of the conversation. Or at least make sure Amos and Bernard didn't end up killing each other.

I looked up at Amos.

"H-hello, Mr. Crimp."

The old man bobbed his head in my direction.

"Eh, thought I recogniz'd you. Amelie?"

"Amelia." I corrected with a wavering smile, "And this is my friend, Bernard."

I waited for Bernard to offer a pleasantry, but when he continued to stare stonily at Amos, I turned to Clive. "And this is Clive."

Clive stuck out his hand.

"It's nice to finally meet you, sir."

Amos stared at Clive's hand as if it were covered in festering wounds.

"Pah. You're th' one wot's always skulkin' round. Th' shifty one. Prob'ly own one of them blasted skateboards, don't you."

Clive frowned.

"Actually-"

"Knew it." He lifted his eyes toward me, "Amelie, if this brigand is botherin' you I can give 'im th' ole wot for. I used to wrestle hogs just for th' fun of it."

He cracked his knuckles and I thought I saw Clive go a shade paler.

"He's not bothering me," I said quickly, "He's my friend, too. And so is Gemma." I nodded towards Gemma, trying to direct Amos' attention away from Clive. "Er, this is Gemma."

"Th' puffball?"

"That's me. The puffball." Gemma said gloomily, flopping her puffy sleeves, "Poof."

"Mr. Crimp," Clive said, "I'm sure you see all kinds of a goings-ons here at Dreycott. Have you ever noticed anything suspicious?"

"You mean like _you_? Wot do you want with Hyacinth? I see you always lurkin' around 'er. Tryin' to vandalize 'er? Hack off pieces of 'er and sell 'em on th' black market!?"

"Mr. Crimp," I cut in before Clive could respond, "We're trying to figure out what's going on at Dreycott. We think that the statue, er, Hyacinth, is at the center of a mystery."

It probably wasn't a good idea to reveal to the groundsman what we were up to, but he was getting so worked up I wasn't sure what else to tell him but the truth.

"And yet you were talkin' 'bout the spiders."

I blinked, surprised to hear he had actually been following along with our conversation.

"Do you know anything about the spiders?" I asked.

"I know I can't get rid of 'em."

"Y-you're trying to get rid of them?"

"Rosen's orders. Says they're a _danger_ to th' kidlings."

"Dangerous?" Clive asked, already flipping his notebook open to a new page.

Amos gave him a highly offended look.

"Don't even think of writin' down what I'm sayin'. My words is my words. No one elses, Clyde."

"It's Clive." Clive said, but he shut his notebook.

"Th' spiders," Amos snapped his thumb and forefinger together several times, "Got pincers. Pois'nous."

"The book said their venom might have potential medicinal purposes." Bernard mused in his best scientific voice, "Are they a threat to people?"

"Eh," Amos waved his hand, "I've gotten bit before. Didn't do a thing."

"Did you tell Rosen that?" Clive asked.

"No one tells Rosen nothin'." Amos grumbled, "Kill the spiders, says she. So that's wot I'm tryin' to do."

He began to shuffle away, singing to himself in a high, whistling voice.

"Smash 'em, squish 'em, stomp 'em flat. Mush 'em, mash 'em, with my hat."

"Certified nutcase." Bernard said, as soon as he was out of earshot, "It's a wonder they continue to employ him."

"No. No, I don't think so." Clive said, "He seems to like you alright, Amelia. Maybe you could find a way to butter him up?"

"I hate to break up the meeting," Gemma said, "But its getting dark." She shivered.

"Let's get inside, please?"

The four of us gathered our things and started down the steps, making for the side entrance near the dormitories.

Here, abreast the towering walls of the school, the shadows were deepest. I brushed my fingers over a running crack in the cold, grainy stones as I walked. My mind was bubbling over. We knew when the Statue would appear. There was another potential puzzle hidden away in the dingy room at the end of the tunnel, possibly more after that. And who knew how many silver spiders slipped unseen across the entire school. I imagined them scrabbling under floorboards and floating down from the ceiling on invisible threads. My finger struck a sharp nick in the stone and I withdrew my hand. I held my index finger close and watched a tiny droplet of blood bloom across the flushed skin.

"There's some sort of patrol initiation tonight." I remarked, almost absent-mindedly, as I continued to gaze at my finger.

"What?" Clive stopped and looked at me, "You're not going, I hope?"

I finally lowered my hand, wiping my finger on the edge of my skirt.

"Yes." I hesitated, "Ursula said it was nothing bad. And something Felix said made me curious."

"What did he say?" Gemma asked.

"He said, 'I hope Boniface isn't afraid of spiders.'"

Bernard snorted.

"Oh, no, that doesn't sound bad at all."

"Amelia, I don't like this." Clive was frowning.

A thread of anxiety began tangling itself into a knot in my stomach. Earlier, I had convinced myself not to worry about the initiation. She was a bit exhausting to be around, but I didn't peg Ursula as a liar and had taken her at her word. Clive's reaction brought to the surface the more wary thoughts I had been trying to ignore. Still, I didn't want to back down now, especially after what Clive and Bernard had learned concerning the spiders. And who knew if I even had a choice in the matter?

"I know," I said, "But I could learn something useful. And I want them to trust me."

"I agree with Clive on this one." Gemma said, her voice still subdued. "Sounds like a really stupid idea to me."

"But I'm not." I felt something harden inside of me, "I can take care of myself."

"Fine." Clive ran a hand through his hair. It stuck out in every direction now. "But if you're going to go through with it, then I'm coming with you."

I blinked.

"What? How?"

"I'll sneak along. Where's it taking place?"

"The cellar. At midnight."

"What if you get caught?" Bernard asked.

Clive smiled and it was sharp at the edges, like a fox revealing just a glint of its fangs.

"I won't get caught."

That was the last word.

We stepped in out of the heavy air, a blanket of frigid velvet, and out of the shadows cast by walls that had weathered and crumbled under countless winters, into a school that was just as crumbled and cold and marked by shadows, strange and shifting. Like ones cast by spider legs.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**The Story So Far...**

 _Amelia, Clive, Gemma, and Bernard meet out on the front steps of the school and discuss their various findings related to Dreycott's mysteries. Through the information they've gathered they are able to pinpoint the time of the Statue's next appearance. As they head back into the school, Clive decides to secretly accompany Amelia to the Patrol initiation which will be taking place that very night. . ._

 **Chapter** **Twelve**

If someone who knew me well had ventured that night to climb the hawthorn that stood outside my window, braving wind and wild branches to peer through the single narrow pane that looked into my room, they would have noticed several odd things about the scene before them. Small things, true, but perplexing nonetheless.

The spy would have noticed first my slight figure on my equally slight bed, the paper on my lap illuminated by a single candle stub placed carefully near my elbow (my room wasn't big enough for any sort of night-stand). Writing letters at night was so not so very unusual for me, but what would have been salient to the knowledgeable observer was the fact that I was still in my uniform, instead of pajamas, and my hair was not unbraided. My eyes, too, did not stay on the paper for more then a moment, but were always darting to the door, near which my shoes were placed, ready for me to slip on at a moment's notice.

There was no one peering through my window on that miserable January night, however, no one to notice anything out of the ordinary, and so my darting and writing continued undisturbed.

 _Dear Granddad,_

 _How are things back home? It's only been a day since I left, but maybe something interesting will have happened by the time this reaches you. You'll be happy to hear that my patroller duties include working in the library. You should see all of the old books they have in storage here, it's incredible. And I'm to help sort them out! The job sounds overwhelming, but I can't help but look forward to it. Speaking of books, how is yours coming along? I feel guilty for not asking about it once when I was home. I hope you continue with it. You're the only person I can think of who could write something like the philosophy of chess and make it funny and interesting at the same time. I'd be happy to read your next draft, if you'd like._

 _Anyway, you'll never guess what we found out about_

I abruptly stopped my pen and closed my eyes, pulling in a long breath through my nose and then letting it out just as slowly.

Even in my letters I wasn't good at keeping secrets.

In truth, there had been several times over the holiday when I had been tempted to tell my grandad everything regarding our little makeshift investigation: the Statue, the Patrol, Professor Rosen, Amos Crimp, and all the other figures and facts that made up the mystery the four of us had stumbled upon. I could tell my granddad knew something was on my mind, that he was keen to find out more, but did not want to push his way to the truth. Somehow, that only made me even more anxious to confide in him.

Usually, my granddad was the first person I went to whenever I was preoccupied with something important or especially worrisome. This time around, however, I was too nervous about my parents finding out to risk revealing anything to him. I was confident he would understand the whole affair, but my parents were another story. They had never been that keen on my attending Dreycott in the first place, not necessarily because of any financial reason, but because...I opened my eyes, realizing I didn't really know why they disliked the school. At any rate, they would dislike it even more if they knew it was home to a band of insufferable bullies, a possibly mad groundsman, and a spectral figure whose existence Professor Rosen seemed desperate to cover up. I didn't want to be forced to leave Dreycott right when we might finally be making some headway.

Still, it bothered me to keep my granddad in the dark. I hadn't ever lied to him about the matter, of course. I had only kept away from certain topics or gave vague details where vivid ones would have raised too many questions. But what if it came to that? To lying? The thought was so unsettling that I scratched out the last line I had written and folded my letter, slipping it under my pillow.

I stood up and stretched, bleary-eyed, my legs numb from having been bent in the same position for so long. The clock on my desk read 11:43. An ugly combination of numbers if there ever was one. Not to mention long past my usual bedtime.

I was a morning person (as much as anyone could be a morning person) and so I usually went to bed a good half hour before lights out. Tonight, however, I could not have slept even if I had wanted to. I had no idea what to expect from a secret Patrol initiation, other than a vague sense of dread informed by Felix's eagerness, Clive's concern, and the simple fact that midnight ceremonies of any sort never usually added up to being wholesome affairs. Ursula had said it would all be for fun, but the more I thought about it, the more I wondered how sharp a divide there was between our notions of the word.

 _Thud, thud_.

My eyes flew to the door. There it was. I jammed my shoes onto my feet, grabbed my candle, and opened the door a crack.

Two figures with dark robes that fell to their feet in loose folds stood out in the dim hallway, their wide hoods pulled low over their faces. One held a candle and the other had a dark bundle under their arm.

"Amelia Alexandria Ruth." the one with the candle spoke in a low, solemn voice, "The appointed hour draws near. Your presence is required at the hallowed place of meeting to which we have been assigned to escort you."

The figure with the candle pulled back her hood revealing the wide smile and yellow headband belonging to Ursula. She winked.

"Don't worry, it's just us." she whispered, "Here."

She took my candle as the other figure tossed me the bundle.

"Put this on." The high-pitched, somewhat whiny voice was obviously Juliet's.

I held the bundle up at arm's length, allowing the folds to fall loose. As I had suspected, it was another robe, the fabric heavy and musty, smelling of the bowels of some forgotten wardrobe. At first I thought it was pure black, but on closer inspection I saw the robe was made of a dark blue material that shimmered slightly under the glow of the candlelight.

"Why-"

"Shh!" Juliet said, "No questions."

"All will be revealed in time." Ursula said. She giggled, ruining any foreboding the line might have conveyed.

I slipped the robe over my head and pulled it on. It practically swam over my small frame, the sleeves trailing down to my knees and the hem tangling in bunches about my feet. I rolled up the sleeves as best I could and hitched the hem up to my knees, feeling like a complete moron. With her lips pressed together in concealed amusement, Ursula flipped up my hood and handed me back my candle.

"Follow us." she whispered. The three of us headed down the hallway, padding softly as we passed the rows of closed doors. As we descended the stairs at the end of the hall, I risked a quick glance down the corridor that lead to the boys' dorms. For not the first time that night, I wondered how Clive planned on infiltrating the initiation. It would be easy enough for him to sneak in wearing a pilfered robe of his own, but a slipped hood would be all it would took to blow his cover.

I followed Ursula and Juliet into the central building, trying not to let myself stew with worry as they lead me through doorways and down corridors with practiced ease. For this, at least, I was grateful. Most of the lights had been either dimmed or switched off completely, making the place seem as unfamiliar as the day I had first arrived.

The ceilings were lost in shadow, lending the feel of unimaginable height. To one side the portraits that lined the walls stared out with cold, impassive expressions, each vanishing into gloom as soon as we passed. Why did they look a shade grotesque, brows too white, lips too red, clothing too rank with ribbons and lace? On the other side, the row of windows reflected back our candlelight like flickering wisps. Faint, teasing lights to lead wayward children astray. With each step, I felt further and further from the comfortably mundane Dreycott I knew during its daylight hours, and closer to the twilit Dreycott of the past, murky and medieval, the roots of a dark fairytale.

I shivered despite the robe. Or maybe because of it. It only seemed to lend to the atmosphere of otherworldliness.

 _Stop_ , I told myself. _Right outside this school is London, full of flats, and offices, and traffic, and a hundred schools more ordinary than this one. It's only because it's midnight and the school is old and candles make everything peculiar._

A final sharp turn and we reached a dark doorway in an equally dark corner.

Two more robed figures, quite a bit larger than my own guides, were standing guard, their arms folded over their chests.

"What's the password?" one of them asked as we approached. The voice was Trevor's.

"The eye of Araneae." Ursula replied, pulling her hood back just enough for him to get a glimpse of her features.

The two guards nodded and stepped aside, allowing us to descend a flight of narrow, uneven wooden steps that squealed under our weight. A cold dampness permeated the air as we reached the bottom and stepped into the cellar, mingling with the smell of potatoes and wet rot. It was so dark that it was hard to tell the size of the place. The only light came from the glow of an enormous furnace in one corner, its heat seemingly trapped within its own hulking body, and a circle of bobbing candles. As we drew nearer, I saw that each one was held by a robed patroller as they milled about in a loose huddle.

I may not have known much about initiations, but I had already pegged this one as terribly trite. The other newest recruit, however, seemed to hold a very different opinion. Stewart melted out of the crowd, visibly trembling, his hood down and his huge eyes reflecting the surrounding flames like mirrors. His robe was even more baggier than mine and he nearly tripped over it as he shuffled towards the three of us.

"Stewart, put your hood up!" Juliet hissed.

"Amelia, is that you?" Stewart asked, ignoring Juliet. His thin hands were tightly clasping his candlestick.

"Yes," I lifted my hood up a bit so that he could see for himself.

Stewart used his sleeve to mop at the sweat that glistened on his forehead.

"This is amazing, right? It's like we're part of some sort of secret society. But it's also kind of terrifying. I mean, what's going to happen?"

He glanced about the dark room, the candle in his hand shaking slightly. I followed his gaze to a large stand of wooden cutouts taking up one corner of the cellar in all variety of shapes: trees, houses, fences, even a castle. They were all jumbled together, like a some sad village after a windstorm, some leaning terrible to the side, others already collapsed into a heap on the ground.

"What's all that?"

"They store all the old play sets down here."

Ursula put Stewart's hood up.

"Now, don't worry. And don't ask any more questions. Either of you. It's one of the rules."

"Oh!" Stewart nodded emphatically, his hood flopping up and down over his face.

"The ceremony will begin very soon." Ursula glanced towards the stairs, "We're just waiting for Vivian."

As Ursula and Juliet left to talk with others in the crowd, Stewart stepped closer to me.

"I know we're not supposed to ask questions, but is it okay if I ask you one?" he whispered loudly, standing on tiptoe so he could say it close to my ear.

"Er, sure."

"Good. Would it be alright if I...held your hand? I mean, if it gets too scary? For you, I mean. I'm not scared! Don't worry, my hands don't get sweaty. Do your hands gets sweaty? Only, I thought it would be good to do it for mutual support."

Before I could answer, the imperious voice of a girl rang from upstairs

"Out of my way." A second later, a tall figure came sweeping down the steps. As the figure reached the bottom, she stopped and threw back her hood, revealing Vivian, her ponytail molten copper and her nostrils flared as she took in the scene before her.

"What is this? The midsummer masquerade? Why aren't you all in proper formation?"

There were a few coughs and stuttered excuses that quickly died with one arched eyebrow from Vivian. In silence, the group scrambled about until they had formed a rigid circle, each patroller turned slightly towards Vivian as they awaited her instructions. Stewart and I remained where we were, apart from the crowd, our eyes on the Head Girl.

"Before we begin." she said, sauntering towards the circle, her hands clasped in front of her, "You should all know that there is a spy in our midst."

I felt a cold needle thread its ways through my chest. No. No, she couldn't know. Clive was much too clever for Vivian. Wasn't he?

There was a general muttering among the patrollers as they turned to one another. Vivian stepped closer to the circle, her eyes narrowing.

"Give yourself up now or suffer the consequences."

No one moved. Vivian took a sudden step towards the closest figure in the circle and yanked off their hood, revealing a mortified Eric.

"It's just me." he said, fumbling to put his hood back up. Without a word, Vivian continued around the circle, pulling each hood down one by one.

My mind was frantically trying to come up with some way to stop her, to distract her, to draw her attention away for just a moment so that Clive could slip away, but I was unable to move or speak, like a whirling hurricane of panic sealed in a bottle.

Vivian had nearly completed her circuit, when several sets of footsteps pounded down the stairs. The two guard patrollers appeared, dragging a smaller robed figure between them.

"Caught a little weasel trying to slip past us." Trevor said. With a delighted smile, Vivian strode over and yanked the third figure's hood down. I involuntarily cringed, then drew in a sharp breath. It wasn't Clive. It was a girl with short dark hair and an expression that could only be described as smug.

"What are you doing here?" Vivian demanded, "Or didn't you know this is a private engagement?"

"Tell your oafish bodyguards to unhand me." the girl said evenly.

Vivian scowled, but nodded at the two guards. As they released their grip on the girl's arms, she immediately stuck out her hand.

"Cathy Cromwell. For the Daily Dreycott?"

"I know who you are." Vivian said, rolling her eyes, "The little reporter."

"Aha. We in the field prefer the term journalist." Cathy whipped out a notebook and pencil from the folds of her cloak.

"What do you want?"

"What do you think? I'm doing a series on old school traditions. I'm calling it Dreycott's Darkest Corners. Your little gathering would certainly qualify."

"Like I said, this is a private ceremony. Leave now or would you rather my oafish bodyguards help you out?"

Cathy shrugged, but I could tell she was upset.

"Fine. Come on, Kate."

A short, stocky figure stepped out from the circle of patrollers and threw off her hood, revealing a girl with bushy hair and a crooked smile.

"Two of you?" Vivian said, her frown deepening.

Cathy folded her arms.

"She's my photographer."

"Next time, ditch the robes, you goobs. It makes infiltration a cake-walk." Kate pulled out a camera and snapped a picture of Vivian's furious expression. She turned to Cathy, "Let's bounce, boss."

Kate flipped up her hood and made a dash for the stairs, disappearing into shadow. Cathy turned to follow and then glanced back, something beyond Vivian catching her eye. She smirked slightly and then bounded up the stairs.

"Should we go after them?" Trevor asked.

Vivian shook her head, blinking rapidly.

"No, they didn't see anything. Get back to your posts."

As the guards trudged back up the stairs, I finally allowed myself a breath of relief. I didn't know where Clive was or if he had even managed to make it to the cellar, but now that Cathy and Kate had been rooted out perhaps Vivian would let her guard down, allowing him to remain hidden. Or maybe their discovery would only make her more paranoid. I glanced around the room, wondering.

"Are you okay, Amelia?" Steward asked, then promptly clapped a hand over his mouth, "Sorry, that was a question, wasn't it?" He paused, then his eyes widened "Dah! I did it again, didn't I?"

"Vivian didn't seem to have any problem asking questions." I commented dryly.

"Well... that's because she's Vivian. Right? I mean after Professor Rosen, she's number two around here! And maybe someday...maybe I'll be number three!" He sighed dreamily, "Imagine. _Number three_."

"Quiet!" Vivian said and I thought I heard Stewart utter a small whimper.

The Head Girl's eyes were now fixed on the two of us. She slowly raised her hood.

"The hour has arrived. Step forth into the circle, initiates."

Silenced prevailed as Stewart and I walked towards the circle, gripping the folds of our robes to keep our feet from becoming entangled. Two patrollers parted slightly to let us through. As we passed between them, Vivian came up from behind and put a firm hand on both of our shoulders. She directed us to the middle of the circle, placing me on her left and Stewart on her right.

"Fellow patrollers," she began, her voice clear and strong, with a hint of relish, "We have gathered here tonight to welcome into our ranks two new initiates. Boniface Stewart and Amelia Ruth."

The circle of patrollers gazed back at us, faceless, the candles catching glints of blue in the fabric of their robes.

"However, before they can truly be worthy of the silver sash, a final test is necessary.

"Test?" Stewart whispered in agony. He gripped his candle tighter whilst continually glancing conspicuously at my hands.

"This test is one that patrollers throughout the ages have faced. It is linked to our past and-" She gave both Stewart and I a significant look, tilting her chin so we could just see a flash of her eyes, "It will decide your future."

Stewart audibly gulped. I swallowed myself, trying to ignore the unease slithering around my stomach.

"But first, the story of our order, the Dreycott Patrol, must be told. Its origins, its purpose, _and_ it's secrets. All will be yours to share." Vivian raised a pale slender hand, "Sit now."

I couldn't have been sure, but I thought I heard a few groans from the surrounding patrollers as we all lowered ourselves onto the cold stone floor.

The Head Girl cleared her throat and began in a somewhat affected voice.

"The origins of our esteemed organization can be traced back centuries ago, to the year-"

" _Boooo_!" a voice rang out. Felix's voice. "Let Lily tell it!"

There was a general stirring among the patrollers.

"Yeah, Lily!"

"Lily!"

The chorus calling for Lily increased in volume until Vivian held up her hands.

"Quiet! It's tradition for a Head to recount the story."

" _LILY_!"

"We can't just toss aside-"

" _LILY! LILY! LILY_!"

"Alright! _Fine_."

In a flurry of blue fabric, Vivian sat down and crossed her arms. Although I couldn't see most of her face, her tightly set jaw was enough to indicate she was quite put out.

A smaller figure suddenly leapt up, pushing back her hood. With a robe that hung loosely from her thin frame and hair just as dark and flowing, Lily looked positively ghoulish as she raised her candle and stared out at the throng of hoods looking up at her, her grin white and elastic.

She licked her finger.

"Listen, fools," her voice was soft and raspy, "I swear that all I tell you is true. There is a lost chapter in Dreycott's history." She snapped two fingers over her candle's wick, smothering the flame, "Its darkest chapter."

"Mummy." Stewart breathed.

Lily snatched up another candle from a nearby patroller.

"Hundreds of years ago, there was a time when London was in the throes of hysteria. There may have been a king on the throne, but, in truth, the city was ruled by triplets: war, plague, and upheaval. Dreycott stood even then. A school without equal. But the times were strange. A sort of crossroads of the centuries, you might say, when new scientific discoveries mingled uneasily alongside the wisdom and lore of the ancients. And Dreycott-Dreycott lay at the center of it all." Lily paused as she turned in a circle, catching each pair of eyes that dared look up at her, "At this time, the school was a sanctuary for scholars of every order, a place where the greatest minds of the time gathered to seek refuge against political disorder, famine, disease, and the suspicions of those who feared their revolutionary ideas. They brought books, and scrolls, and tomes from every corner of the known world and together they decided to unlock some of the greatest mysteries known to mankind."

Lily's expression took on an even darker tinge, her smile almost demented.

"A noble goal, you say? But the greatest achievements always have a price. In this case, through their experimentation, their deep delving into long lost knowledge, and meddling into secrets too great for mortals, the scholars unleashed a monster upon the school."

It was so silent in the cellar, I felt I could almost hear the strain of anticipation within every person in the circle.

"What was she really? To this day, no one knows. Part woman, part spider, part something else. They called her Araneae. And when she awoke, she fled into the bowels of the school. Never to be seen again, so thought the scholars. But they were wrong."

Beside me, Stewart's breathing was becoming heavier.

"Pupils and professors alike began to disappear. Children snatched from corridors and teachers from their beds in the dead of night. Taken by Araneae, gobbled down or worse, turned into spiders themselves. Tiny silver ones whose offspring you can still see creeping around the school today."

I felt something moist and slippery brush against my hand and then clamp down upon it with the strength of a bear trap. I glanced down to see Stewart gripping my hand, his eyes bulging from their sockets as he stared up at Lily, mouth agape. He finally noticed my glance and let go.  
"Sorry." he whispered, slowly withdrawing his hand into his sleeve.

I nodded, gingerly wiping his sweat off on my robe.

"As time passed, many fled the school, terrified for their lives. Those who dared stay were at a loss as to what they should do. They did not know where Araneae's lair was hidden and were too frightened to search for it. Amidst the chaos and the uncertainty, there stood one band of young pupils, clever and braver then all the rest. The scholars saw them as acolytes and relied on them to keep an eye on the remaining children. They patrolled the school at night, hoping to keep Araneae at bay. But one day, they decided to go after her for themselves."

As Lily paused again, I looked about. Even with their faces obscured, I could tell everyone was enraptured by her story. She was a natural, knowing precisely which tone would heighten the effect of her words, when to pause to draw out the suspense, and how to use an endless stock of exaggerated gestures and facial expressions to achieve just the right response. I didn't believe the story for a second, of course, but they said there was a drop of truth in every tale. I knew I had stumbled onto something huge, some missing piece to the puzzle. How it connected to the Statue, I was still unsure.

"Now, I'll let you in on a little secret, one that few beside the Patrol now know. Beneath Dreycott lies a labyrinth of tunnels. Twisting, turning, confounding. Once in you'd never get out without a map. Who built them and for what purpose? No one knows. But the students knew that Araneae must lies deep within. After many weary days and restless nights of arguing and back and forth, they devised a plan. They would flood the monster out using the well that lay near the edge of the tunnels. They did so, at great peril to themselves, and the plan succeeded. Araneae was flushed out, down the tunnels, through the twisting passages, into a chamber, deep, deep down. They shut her up in there, locked the door, destroyed the key. But Araneae was nothing if not clever. She plucked out one of her eyes, a brilliant blue eye, and washed it out of the chamber before the door was shut. The students searched for the eye afterwards, but they could never find it. Araneae remained trapped, but she could still see through this eye, still had use of her magic through this single eye. And now she watches the school. She waits for an opportunity to break free and wreak havoc at Dreycott once again."

A breathless hush, then Lily continued,

"Yet, there remains a shaft of bleak hope. The students who had so bravely defeated Araneae were hailed as heroes upon their return. They were made into the Dreycott Patrol, the school's most brilliant students whose job is to watch over both teachers and pupils alike. But they have another secret task, which only they are privy to. It is the Patrol's solemn duty to find Araneae's eye and destroy it. This has been our task for hundreds of years and yet it has always eluded us. All the while, Araneae plots and we search, endlessly, for the one thing that could lead to her destruction...or freedom." Lily closed her eyes and shook her head, "And if that were to happen, then do you know who she would go after first?"

She took a step towards Stewart, tilting her head as she looked down at him.

Stewart licked his lips.

"N-nn-no?"

"She would come after the Patrol, first, the ones responsible for her misery. And which of the Patrol would she devour first?"

"The w-w-wweakest?"

Lily smiled.

"Very good. The weakest." She bent down, so that her eyes were nearly level with Stewart's. When she spoke her voice was soft and calm, like a mother soothing an infant, "She would open her jaws wide, wider than a snake, and swallow HIM WHOLE."

As her words rose to a crescendo, a dark shape grabbed Stewart from behind, letting loose a blood-curdling howl.

Stewart shrieked and leapt to his feet, flinging his candle at his assailant while wrenching himself away. He stumbled across the cellar, tripped over his robe, and scrambled on his hands and knees up the stairs.

There was a brief pause as everyone watched him disappear and then laughter rippled throughout the circle. The figure who had scared Stewart ripped off a grotesque rubber mask, revealing Felix, flushed and grinning. He stood and stepped upon Stewart's discard candle, wax pooling over the floor, and extinguished the flame beneath his shoe.

"Scared you a little bit too, Lily?" he asked.

The girl sat down without a word, flipping her hood low over her eyes.

"She's impressed." Felix said to no one in particular.

"Someone better go find him." Ursula spoke up from somewhere in the crowd.

A patroller rose to his feet and sighed.

"I'll do it." It was Eric.

"Good luck. Probably halfway up the Thames by now, swimming for his life."

With a groan, Eric hurried upstairs.

When he was gone, Vivian stood and flashed Felix a glare.

"I told you not to do that again." she said, "You shouldn't make light of the story."

Felix snorted.

"Give it a rest, Queen V. _The story_? Please. That's why we tell it. To make widdle fragile cherubs like Boniface wet their pants." He snorted, "Or you think you're going to wake up one morning to find a giant spider breathing down your neck because you never squished a magical eyeball that's been rolling around the school for centuries? I mean, it's not even clever."

Vivian turned from Felix without a word to fix her gaze on me. I could just make out the glint of her green eyes by the light of her candle.

"What about you, Amelia. Do you believe the story?"

I shifted in my spot, unsure of how to answer. I wondered, though, if this was the only Dreycott legend Vivian believed in. I decided to test the waters.

"Well...it does seem a bit hard to swallow that Dreycott's home to two...magical...things. Erm, beings?"

I didn't know how else to categorize both a spider woman and a living statue.

Vivian stared at me.

"I don't know what you mean." she said in a stiff voice.

"Pfffft," Felix waved a careless hand, "Go ahead, tell her. She probably knows anyway. She's one of us now."

That coming from Felix felt like the greatest insult of all time.

Vivian's eyes narrowed.

"Not quite." She leaned closer to me, her voice hardening, "I don't know what you've heard or what you think you know about this school, but know this. Until Araneae's eye is found and disposed of, this school is cursed. There's no telling what might happen."

With my hood still up, I was able to gaze steadily back at her, searching for any indication that she did not believe her own words. Her features were firm, her eyes unreadable.

"If I'm part of the Patrol, shouldn't I know if... anything is going on?" I asked, trying to sound innocuous.

"Merely being on the Patrol doesn't entitle you to confidential information." Vivian replied, "Professor Rosen is responsible for making sure everyone knows exactly what they need to know. I can assure you that she has the situation under control."

She was frowning now.

There were footsteps on the stairs followed by the reappearance of Eric and a sheepish Stewart, trailing behind him.

Everyone silently rose to their feet as they rejoined the circle.

"The test approaches." Vivian said, "As patrollers, you now know your duty is not only to look after this school, but to help us fulfill our secret mission to recover Araneae's eye. But are you up for the challenge? That is what we will soon discover."

Stewart and I shared a glance. Sweat was shining brightly against his pale forehead again.

"Step this way, please."

The circle parted and we followed Vivian across the cellar, to where a round cover made of rust-flaked iron was set into the floor, similar to a manhole, but twice as large. Vivian indicated for Stewart and I to stand by the cover's edge, as the rest of the Patrol formed another circle around the three of us, walling us in.

Vivian snapped her fingers. In a moment, Trevor and the other guard (Garret, I guessed) pushed their way through the circle, each with a crowbar in hand, and positioned themselves on either side of the cover.

"Ready?" Garret said.

Wedging their crowbars under the lip of the cover, they carefully raised it up and out of the hole. Tendrils of cool, wet air drifted out from the blackness below, gently stirring my hair. The smell of rot grew heavier.

"W-what's down?" Stewart asked. As Trevor and Garret set the cover down next to the hole, the small boy took a tentative step forward, straining his neck to see down into the gaping mouth.

"It's alright. Come closer."

Vivian moved to stand right at the hole's edge.

Stewart and I looked at each other, then followed Vivian's lead. The three of us peered down into a gaping cavity that could have gone straight to the center of the earth, for all I knew.

"It is time. Time to face the true Patrol test." Vivian said.

"Wha-"

I had barely uttered a syllable, when I felt a strong sudden push from behind. My body gave a dreadful lurch and then the black was swallowing me, rushing up around me, engulfing me. Down, down, down, down, stomach dropping like lead. Nothing, nothing, but empty nothing, a raging waterfall of nothing. I might have been screaming as I plummeted down into the hole, legs flailing, robe billowing around me, or it could have been the air as it whistled passed my ears. Either way the piercing sound abruptly stopped when I hit something thick and soft and rolled over on my stomach to discover my cushion was actually soaking wet, reeking of rain and decay.

After a moment of oblivion, not speaking, not thinking, not really even breathing, I sat up and spat out a leaf, my heart throbbing in my ears, my body reliving the impact over and over again. I dazedly wiggled my fingers and toes, which I could just make out in the gloom. I wasn't hurt as far as I could tell, but my lungs felt like they had been wrenched from my chest, so breathless with adrenaline and shock was I. Cutting into the surge of blood pounding through my head was a low groaning. I turned to see Stewart spread-eagled beside me in the pile of rubbish, his eyes screwed shut.

"Stewart," I said. I tugged at his arm. "Stewart!"

Laughter floated down from above us. I looked up to see the hole set high in the ceiling, allowing a shaft of faint amber light to reach the floor. A number of dark figures were looking down at us.

"Good luck, you two." said Felix, his voice distorted by a strange echo that bounced down the walls.

Stewart's arm suddenly shot up and grabbed my own, his short nails digging into my skin through my sleeve.

"She's here." he moaned, as he clung ever tighter onto my arm, "She's in here."

"Stewart, calm down." I said, trying to pull my arm free from his grip, "Get up."

I stood, pulling him to his feet in the process. He finally let go of my arm to clamp his hand over his nose.

"Ugh! What are we standing on?" he asked, "It smells like a bad moldy sandwich! I mean, don't you think so?"

I looked down at the slime heaped around my feet. As my eyes better adjusted to the dim light I could make out the shapes of wet leaves and newspapers, banana peels and sodden vegetables, wood chips and bits of old tire, all thrown together in a clammy rubbish stew. Both of our candles had also fallen into the pile, their graves marked by weak wisps of smoke.

"It's alright. Nothing too bad." I said. I turned in a circle, taking in our shadowy surroundings, "Let's have a look around, okay?"

We waded through the refuse until it trailed away to a hard-packed earthen floor. A few more steps and we hit a wall.

I placed my hands upon it. It was very cold and solid, made of smooth stone. Sliding a hand along the wall, I made my way around the room, Stewart glued to my side, rubbing his own hands together as he alternated between gulping and hyperventilating.

About half-way back to where I had started, the surface of the wall transitioned from smooth to a vast series of grooves.

"There's something here."

I took a few steps back and squinted at the dark wall. "I think..." I finally said, "I think it's a web."

"A WEB!? You mean like...?"

"What?"

Stewart gave me a horrified look and made a dash for the center of room. He stood under the hole and began jumping as I high as he could (which wasn't very high).

"C'mon! Please! Let's us out! PLEASE!"

His frantic begging was met by silence. I glanced up and saw that the figures stooped over the hole had disappeared.

"We're trapped down here. They never wanted us to be on the Patrol. They just wanted to trap us down here forever." he said, finally looking over at me with utter despair, "Now...now I'll never be number three."

"But that's the test, Stewart. They want us to find our way out of here." I said, hoping I was right, "Now come look at this."

I ran my hands over the grooves again and then took a step back, squinting as hard as I could. A stone relief had been carved across the entire wall. A single deeply forked branch twisted across the middle spanned by a large spider web. Sitting near the top of the web, on the branch, was a spider that stood out so starkly from its background, I thought it might scurry down to my hand.

"Look," Stewart said. He had walked over and was now hunched down, tracing something near the bottom of the wall. "It's writing, I think."

I bent over, hands on my knees. The diffused glow from the hole in the ceiling touched the words just enough for me to read them.

"To egress, the lower branch the spider must posses. For success choose the shortest path unless you wish arachnid to regress."

"What?" Stewart was pulling at his hair, "That makes no sense!"

"Calm down." I said, "'Egress' means exit. In order to get out of here, we have to somehow get that spider to the lower branch."

"But it's just a picture!"

Stewart stood on tip-toe and tapped on the spider. With a sharp click, it smoothly slid a short distance onto the web.

"Ohhhh." he said.

"It's like a maze." I put a hand on his shoulder, "Good work, Stewart."

Stewart beamed.

"So you can move the spider across the web," I narrowed my eyes, "It must be magnetized or something."

Stewart was tracing the web with his fingers.

"'For success choose the shortest path unless you wish arachnid to regress'. So, we have to find the shortest path through the web, right?"

"I think so."

"There's so many different paths. How are we ever going to find the shortest one? We can't!" He threw his arms up into the air, "It's hopeless, right? They're going to keep us trapped in here until we run out of air." Stewart drew in a sharp breath, "We shouldn't talk loud," he whispered, "We'll use up all the air."

He continued breathing in shallow puffs.

"Stewart!" I gripped him by his bony shoulders, "It's just a puzzle. That's all it is. We can solve it. But you've got to keep your head clear."

"But-"

"We're _not_ going to run out of air and there's nothing down here to be afraid of. It's just an empty room."

"It's so dark." he said in a tremulous voice.

I turned back to the web with a sigh. He was right. The room was just bright enough for us to make out the web, but finding the shortest route under such dim lighting was going to be more than a little difficult. I couldn't panic, though. Stewart was providing enough of that for the both of us. I thought a moment, then turned to the small boy.

"Look. See how the web is divided into little segments. There's three different kinds, see?"

Stewart peered closer.

"Yeah. Short, long, and sort of in between."

"Right. So in order to find the shortest route we need to use as few of those segments as possible. And the few we do use should always be the short ones or a medium one if absolutely necessary. Let's see if we can keep away from the longest ones."

"Hey, that actually doesn't sound so tough."

Stewart reached up and began to push spider across the web.

"If I do this and then this...and then..." He zig-zagged the spider across the web until he finally reached the bottom branch.

"There! That should do it!"

We waited in silence. After a moment, the spider slowly and silently slid back the way it had come to rest in its initial place at the top of the forked branch.

"Unless you wish arachnid to regress," I repeated, "If we get it wrong, we start all the way back at the beginning again."

I examined the web for a few minutes and then tried my own path through its twists and turns. As before, once the spider reached the bottom, it paused then slid as if by invisible fingers back to the top of the web.

For the next ten minutes, the two of us alternated trying different routes through the maze but each attempt ended with the spider returning to its place.

"They've probably all gone to bed up there." Stewart said in a miserable voice as we watched the spider slide back up for perhaps the twentieth time. "I'm sure Vivian got it her first try. Or at least her second."

"There has to be something we're missing." I said. I thought of the silent riddle and Professor Rosen's own puzzles she had used to test potential patrollers. "Maybe we're thinking about it the wrong way."

"What? How? Maybe it's broken! Do you think it's broken?"

I bent down and read through the instructions once again.

"Maybe...we made a wrong assumption."

"Huh?" Stewart's eyes were full moons, "But the instructions said to find the shortest route and that's what we've been trying to do."

"Find the shortest route, yes, but there was no mention of going through the web."

"But how else would the spider get to the bottom branch?"

"Think about it, Stewart. What created the web in the first place?"

"The...spider? ...Right? Is this a trick question?"

"Right! A spider creates silk. Therefore-" I placed my finger on top of the spider and gently slid it down in a straight line from the top branch to the bottom. "All the spider has to do is spin a new thread to lower itself down."

The spider reached the bottom branch and this time there was a satisfying click. Then came a clunk.

Stewart and I shared a look.

"Did that do it?"

There was another clunk from behind us.

I turned around to faintly see a section of the wall grinding open on the opposite wall, revealing a set of stone steps that curled away into the gloom.

"Sweet, beautiful stairs!" Stewart cried. He leapt across the room like a professional ballerino and started up the steps. A second later, he poked his head back down, "Erm, are you coming? It's sort of spooky."

But my attention had turned to another smaller, section of the wall that had slid open just under the spider web relief. Behind it was a small door covered with an ornate black grate, a keyhole set in the middle.

"Amelia?"

I looked up.

"Coming."

We hurried up the spiral staircase, reaching a squat wooden door. I flung it open to warm light and the semi-circle of waiting patrollers. Beyond was the cellar. We had come out very near the furnace.

"Congratulations." Vivian said, stepping out from the circle, her voice impassive, "You have passed the test. You may now take the Patroller oath and then the initiation will find its conclusion."

"What? It's done? We did it?" Stewart looked around at everyone, mouth open, searching for confirmation.

Felix snickered.

"We can shove you back in the hole again, if you'd like to do it over."

Stewart held up his hands.

"No, no, I'm good."

"Bring the book." Vivian said.

A patroller shouldered his way through the circle, holding a small wooden box. With careful reverence, Vivian lifted the lid and pulled out a book with yellowing pages and a battered blue cover.

"The original Dreycott handbook." she said.

The book was really nothing impressive to look at, but I tried to maintain a semblance of awe.

"Place your hands on the book, both of you, and repeat after me."

We did so, my small hands next to Stewart's bony, long ones.

"I swear to uphold all the duties of Patrol," Vivian said, and we echoed back her words.

"To protect and preserve Dreycott, to maintain order and discipline, and to do everything within my power to find the eye and destroy it, so vanquishing the wicked power contained within."

Destroy an eye. What did it really mean? It was all very perplexing, but I finished the oath just the same.

"It's done. Amelia Ruth and Boniface Stewart, you are now true patrollers. You share our burdens, our secrets." Vivian put the book gently back into the box and closed the lid, "You are dismissed."

Stewart let out an enormous sigh of relief. I let my shoulders relax. It was done and Clive had remained undiscovered.

The semi-circle dispersed, everyone breaking off into groups of twos and threes, chatting like ordinary schoolchildren as they headed in the direction of the stairs. I looked back, but Vivian was already shutting the door we had just exited and locking it with a black key. Over by the hole, Trevor and Garret were replacing the round cover.

"C'mon, Amelia." Stewart said, bounding after Vivian.

I was about to follow when there came a long low creak from somewhere in the cellar.

Everyone stopped as if by an invisible wall. Hooded faces turned in all directions.

"Probably rats." someone said.

"Or," Lily said, "Araneae's undead victims come to do the bidding of their mistress."

Everyone turned to look at her.

"You didn't tell us anything about undead victims!" Stewart whispered, "You said they turned into spiders!"

Another creak, then what sounded like tiny nails scraping across metal.

"Trevor, Garret, go check it out." Vivian said to the two guards, still clutching their crowbars.

"You go check it out." Garret said, "If you're done down here, we're going to bed."

 _Creeeeaaaakash!_

A cutout tree suddenly tipped forward and fell with a resounding crash onto the floor. Stewart screamed.

"Felix, go look." Vivian said, pointing towards the huddle of play sets.

"It's a stupid rat." Felix countered, his face pale.

The furnace suddenly shuddered to life, letting loose what sounded like a long mechanical laugh.

"Let's go."

Felix turned and started up the stairs. One by one the rest of the Patrollers followed until finally Vivian, with a scowl, turned on her heel, and marched up the steps, leaving only Stewart and I.

"Thanks for solving the puzzle, Amelia." Stewart said.

I smiled.

"You helped."

"What? I did?"

"Yes, you did."

"I helped." Stewart repeated the words. He smiled. "Well...we'd better go now before the undead victims attack us."

"You go on ahead." I said, "I'm...I think I'll take my time."

Stewart cocked his head, shrugged, and started up the steps. Once he had reached the top, I turned around and looked over the cellar. It was all dark now, save for the glow of the heaving furnace.

"Clive?" I asked and my voice sounded very small. Silence.

I waited for what seemed an hour, although it was probably only a minute or two, then I turned and looked up the crooked staircase. What time was it, anyway?

With a sigh, I started up the steps, counting the boards as they creaked beneath my feet. One. _Creeaaak_. Two. _Creeaaak_. Three. _Creeaaak_. Four. S _hhfff._

It was a very soft sound, like a shoe sliding across stone. I stopped and turned my head slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shape suddenly blot out the light of the furnace. I twisted about just as a pale blur shot out of the gloom from below and caught it before it reached me, my fingers curling around what felt like a wrist.

"Nice try."

There was a click and then a strong beam that nearly blinded me.

"Hey!" My arm instinctively shot up to block the light, the wrist slipping from my grip in the process.

The beam lowered and I blinked down at Clive standing on the first step, holding a torch and smirking slightly.

"Sorry." he said.

"Where were you?" I already knew the answer.

Clive looked over his shoulder.

"Behind those old sets."

"Oh, really?"

"What?"

"I guess I was expecting something a little more clever. You do know how easy it would have been for someone to find you?"

"By your tone, I can tell you were worried sick about me."

"Not until I thought you might be stupid enough to give yourself away at the end."

Clive smiled.

"Scared them worse then Lily's story, didn't I?"

I shifted my weight.

"That was completely unnecessary."

"But worth it."

I sighed.

"Were you able to hear everything?"

"Most of it, yes..." His voice trailed away, his brow creased.

"Had you heard of Araneae before?"

"You catch the odd tale about her here and there. But nothing like Lily's full-blown account."

"I mean I don't think the story is true, of course, but...I think it's still important."

"I agree. There's something deeper hidden within it." He paused, "You remember that story I wrote to help you and Gemma find our secret hideout?"

"Yes."

"I think it's like that. Not really an allegory, but...a code, maybe. So only the right people who hear it will know what it's really saying."

"Or parts of it could be factual history, and it just became more fantastic as the years passed."

"I'm no expert, but monster stories are almost always based on very real fears. Fear of the unknown, of unpredictable forces..."

"Fear of spiders, then?"

Clive looked unsure.

"Maybe."

"A school with its own evil statue _and_ blood-thirsty spider lady." I said, "Just lovely."

"Chances are there's a vampire and a werewolf somewhere around here, too."

"I _know_ there is." I said with a snort, "Vivian and Felix."

"Now, that's not very nice."

I flashed him a look.

"I guess being tossed into a dark pit of rubbish puts me in a bad temper." I wasn't exactly sure if this was true, but there _was_ something about surviving a long fall that imbued one with a certain amount of cheek.

"Yes. That would do it." He smirked, then waved a hand in front of his nose, "And you might want to think about burning that robe you're wearing?"

"Not until you think about burning that jumper."

I slipped my robe off over my head and tossed it at his face.

Clive ducked, looking surprised, but then his smile faded. "I saw what they were going to do. I should have stopped them."

"And then what would've happened to you? It's okay. Really."

"You're not hurt, are you?"

"What? No. And besides, you have to hear what I found down there."

I quickly told Clive about the puzzle and how the walls had shifted when we solved it, revealing not only a way out but also a smaller, grated door.

When I was done, he nodded in the direction of the square door near the furnace Stewart and I had used to escape.

"Let's take a look at that lock, shall we?"

When we reached the door, Clive examined the lock for a moment and then nodded.

"Standard pin tumbler lock. I should be able to pick it."

"Your list of questionable talents continues to grow." I remarked, still feeling bolder than usual and rather liking it.

"We can come back tomorrow with Bernard and Gemma. Check out that door." Clive said as we started across the cellar. "And this time, we'll use the stairs." He paused, tilting his head, "Unless you think the other way is more convenient?"

I punched him in the stomach.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**The Story So Far...**

 _In the dead of night, Amelia attends the Patrol initiation ceremony in the cellar and hears the story of Araneae, a legendary monster thought to be trapped beneath the school. While solving a puzzle to pass the Patrollers' test, she uncovers a small black door which Clive decides they should examine the next day. . ._

 **Chapter** **Thirteen**

"You know, this is exactly how I imagined my second day of term," With an amount of lassitude that only he was capable of projecting, Bernard spread his arms, "Us, standing in the school cellar, with Clive jimmying a lock like a common thief. Wonderful."

"It is wonderful." Gemma said, without a trace of Bernard's dripping sarcasm, "But he's not jimmying it, no, there's a different name for it...er, I can't quite think of it, but it's an art-form, alright. Teach me your ways, Clive."

"Everyone, quite please."

Clive was kneeling in front of the square door in the cellar, twisting a piece of wire inside the lock with careful precision. To my right, Bernard shined Clive's torch into the keyhole for him, the usual scowl in place. Gemma stood at his elbow rocking on her heels.

"This is really exciting, though, guys. I feel like our investigation is finally taking off."

I let escape a yawn. Not that I disagreed with Gemma. It had been past two when I finally collapsed into bed last night and seven when I pulled myself out again for my first morning of classes. It was after lunch, now, and, quite miraculously, all four of us were free for an hour or so. Clive had wasted no time rounding us up and dragging us down into the cellar which was just as dank and, nearly as dim, as last night. We had managed to locate the switch to the overhead lights, but the ancient flicking light bulbs, coated in grime and dangling from frayed cords like the lures of deep-sea fish, only seemed to emphasize the gloom that seeped from every corner and crevice.

"Since we might be here for a while," Bernard said, shooting an irritated glance at Clive, "Why don't you tell us more about last night, Amelia?"

"Yes, do tell. You're being very quiet," Gemma paused, "I mean even for you."

I fiddled with one of my braids, not able to meet either of their inquisitive looks.

There was a reason for my silence. It was Gemma. After seeing her mood plunge so suddenly yesterday, I was afraid of setting her off again. I felt that whatever was the matter with her had something to do with the spiders, however crazy it sounded, and what I had seen and heard last night had _everything_ to do with the spiders. There were so many questions I wanted to ask her now. Had she heard of Araneae before? Did she believe in the legend? Or did she simply have a severe case of arachnophobia? I half-hoped that this was the real reason behind her behavior, even though I knew it did not explain why other pupils treated her so coldly.

Whatever the answer, the matter seemed terribly upsetting to Gemma, as much as she tried to conceal it. I could not bring myself to confront her or say anything that would cause her to put up that icy front that was so different from her usual warm nature. What I really wanted was to talk to Bernard and Clive about her in private, to see if they knew anything or had any idea of what should be done. I, for one, was at a loss.

I was about to respond, how exactly I wasn't sure, when there was a begrudging clunk from the lock.

"I've got it." Clive said, straightening. He removed the piece of wire and pushed down on the door's handle, allowing it to swing open.

"You know, I still say you could have broken into the special collection and snuck a peek at that book. Then Amelia wouldn't be stuck wearing this silly thing." Gemma said, straightening my sash as the four of us started down the spiral staircase. Bernard lead the way, his torch bouncing off the walls.

"I told you, that's not the only reason I wanted Amelia to join Patrol," Clive said. "She has a chance to keep her finger on the pulse now."

"Okay, then, what went on last night?" Bernard asked, turning to shine the torch right in Clive's face. "What is this place? We're not much help if you two don't tell us anything."

Clive glanced at me.

"They threw me and Stewart down here." I said, "We had to solve a puzzle to get out."

"They threw you down here?" Gemma echoed.

"Yes, through a hole in the cellar floor."

"Wait, really? Why was there-Wha!?"

As we rounded the stairs, the beam of the torch hit upon a blank wall of stone at the bottom of the steps. A dead end.

"Oh! I should've known." I said, "The puzzle probably reset itself."

"Surely that hole isn't the only way to access the room." Clive said. He reached the wall and ran his hands over its surface, "There must be something..."

"Wait! I know!" Gemma felt along the curving left wall of the stairwell until her fingers stopped upon a faintly protruding square. When she pressed it, the square slowly sunk into the stone, allowing the wall before us to grind open.

"Nice work, Gemma." Clive said.

"I'm starting to get the feeling that secret doors and passages are ten a penny round here." Bernard grumbled.

"It's just like the passageway to your hidey-hole. When we first solved that puzzle we were-Agh!" Gemma pinched her nose as the four of us stepped into the room, "Alas! We've reached the stinking depths of Tartarus!"

Bernard aimed the torch at the mounds of refuse heaped in the middle of the floor. With the hole closed, the smell of wet decay was thick.

"They threw you into that?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Hmm."

He raised the beam and scoured the walls, finally stopping on a thick metal tube jutting out near the top of the wall at an odd angle.

"Rubbish chute. Probably connects to the outside. I wonder if our favorite groundsman knows about this place."

"Where did you say the door was, Amelia?" Clive asked.

I lead them over to the spider web relief. The details stood out sharply against the light of the torch.

"The craftsmanship is amazing," Clive said, brushing his fingers over the web, "Someone put a lot of time and effort into making this."

"Eh," Bernard said.

I snuck a look at Gemma, but her expression was unreadable. She frowned slightly as she squinted near the bottom of the relief.

"'To egress, the lower branch the spider must posses. For success choose the shortest path unless you wish arachnid to regress.'" She read aloud, "What on earth does all that mean?"

I explained to the three of them the solution to the puzzle and slid the spider down just as I had the night before. There was the same series of noises and then the wall beneath the relief slid into the floor to reveal the small door, more of a hatch really, barred with black grating.

Bernard kneeled down, shining the torch through the grating. Bending over, all I could see was the mouth of a smooth stone tunnel dusted with a few cobwebs. It looked just big enough for a full-sized adult to crawl through.

Clive tugged at the grating, but it was securely fastened with a large, oddly shaped bolt in each corner. He fingered the key hole set into the middle.

"I've never seen a lock like this before. Looks complicated."

"Look," Bernard said, "There's a pattern."

I squinted at the grating and realized it was made up of intertwining spirals, swirls, and spiders. The pattern created the illusion of constant, circular motion that grew stronger the longer you stared. It was mesmerizing.

"Spiders. No surprise there." Clive said.

"No."

We all turned. Under the spotlight of the torch, Gemma was slowly backing away from the wall, her face pale, her features touched with horror. Her whole frame quivered.

"Don't touch it." she said in a rasp of a whisper.

"Gemma,"

Icicles were bristling inside of me, sliding into my chest, my throat. I took a step towards her, but she only hastened backwards.

"Don't open it." The torch caught Gemma's glasses, reflecting back a blank shine that concealed her eyes and masked their fear with cold brilliancy.

"Gemma, please, tell us what's wrong."

Gemma violently shook her head.

"No. No, no, I can't, there's nothing you can do."

With that, she turned and ran out of the room. Her footsteps pounded up the stairs and then silence descended.

"Well," Bernard said weakly, "And I thought I was going to be the one to run away in despair."

"Amelia?" Clive was looking at me with questioning eyes.

"You've noticed how everyone tends to avoid Gemma, haven't you?" I asked in a hollow voice.

Clive's eyes dropped to the floor.

"Yes, I have." His voice was quiet, laced with guilt, "And I know there were rumors floating around about her for awhile, but, at the time, I didn't pay them much attention. I didn't really know Gemma then..."

"There's more."

I told Clive and Bernard about how Madge and Harper had reacted to Gemma after finding the spider in their room that frosty December night last term and how Gemma's own attitude had subsequently shifted, from jovial to sullen.

"And then the same sort of thing happened yesterday when you two started talking about the spiders."

"And just here again, "Bernard added, "Although she acted more scared than anything."

Clive rubbed his chin.

"Do you have any idea what could be going on, Amelia?"

I shook my head, feeling miserable. This was exactly what I had wanted to avoid.

"She has bad headaches sometimes, too. I don't know if it's related, but I just remember that when I first met her she got a headache and then she was really confused and turned around when we were trying to find the library." I paused, my voice faltering, "I've wanted to talk to her about it, all of it, but she always made light of it and I'm...I'm not very good at that sort of thing."

"We need to find her." Clive said, "And get all of this straightened out."

He made for the stairs, plunging into the darkness without a second glance at us.

Bernard and I looked at each other and then hurried after him. We had made it halfway across the cellar when we heard a number of footsteps stamping down the steps.

Clive stopped and whipped around, latching onto our arms.

"Hide." he whispered. He pulled us into the stand of old sets, all three of us ducking behind the leeward side of a lopsided house.

"I thought I heard something."

The footsteps had reached the cellar floor.

"Just a mouse."

"JUSTAH MOOOWWOOOOOSSSE!" The third voice belted out his words in a high-pitched squeal.

"Okay, now, it's a dead mouse because that-that sounded like death right there." the first voice said.

"Told you, Bone. I'm tryin' to develop my upper range. But it's gonna get worse before it gets better, believe me that's always the way it is. With anything."

There was a thick sort of rustling sound.

"Everything still here?" a female voice said and I recognized it as Darcy's. Whatever anxiety had been gnawing inside me instantly faded.

"That's Darcy," I whispered, "It's okay. Maybe she'll have seen which way Gemma went."

Before Clive or Bernard could say anything, I stood up and walked out from behind the sets.

Four figures across the room were instantly alert. One of them threw his hands into the air.

"Aw, cripes, I told you this would happen." said a rotund boy with spiked hair dyed crimson at the tips.

Next to Darcy there were two other boys, a gangly boy with a long nose and wispy mustache and another with a wild mane of hair and sunglasses. He was the one with his arms in the air. Behind them, next to a crumpled tarp, were a number of battered instruments, including a set of drums, a keyboard and an electric guitar. Darcy was balancing a black cello case on her hip.

"Er, it's okay." I said, stepping closer, my face burning, "Sorry, we just-"

"And it's a patroller," The gangly boy muttered.

The boy with sunglasses fell to his knees, grasping wads of his voluminous hair.

"No. Not again. Can't do it. Nuh-uh. Unco'll strangle me if I get kicked out of another school." he paused, "Or at least he'd have his butler strangle me."

"It's okay, guys," Darcy said, her features relaxing as I stepped nearer, feeling increasingly stupid, "It's Amelia. She wouldn't rat us out."

"Of course not." I said, then hesitated, "Er, even if I knew what to rat you out for."

The wild-haired boy leapt to his feet and a struck a pose, flashing me a peace sign.

"Yeah, whoo, knew you would be cool, chicky baa-aaby."

"Sammy, don't scare her."

"Sorry."

"We practice down here." Darcy explained, "We're sort of a band...in-progress. But we don't exactly have permission." She turned to the three boys, "This is Bone," indicating the tall one, "Vince," the spiky-haired one, "And Sammy."

"Sammy THUNDAA-AHHH." Sammy amended with a musical howl.

"Nice to meet you." I said politely, my ears ringing.

"Yow!" Sammy was looking past me. I turned to see Clive and Bernard stepping out from behind the sets, "Three of you!"

Sammy made a square frame with his fingers as Clive and Bernard came closer.

"You know, you three would make a great bunch of roadies. How would you like to tour with Sammy and the Thunders?"

"Oy, thought we agreed against that stinker of a name." Vince said.

Sammy turned to him, crestfallen.

"What? Nobody told me. What's wrong with it?"

"Did you three pass a girl with glasses and long hair on your way down here by any chance?" Clive interrupted.

"You're talking about Gemma, right?" Darcy said with a frown, "Sure. She ran right past us, nearly knocked us over. She was headed in the direction of the dorms."

"Looked pretty upset," Bone added.

"Guys, why don't you start setting up." Darcy gave the three boys a significant look. They looked at each other and shrugged. Once they were busy fiddling with the instruments, Darcy led us towards the base of the stairs.

"Darcy, do you know anything about what's...what's going on with Gemma?" I asked, although I was already pretty sure of the answer.

Darcy closed her eyes, running a hand through her short blonde hair.

"What I do know, Gemma asked me not to tell anyone, but I think that's done more harm than good. You three ought to know, too."

The three of us remained silent, waiting as she appeared to collect her thoughts.

"It happened...oh, it must have been near the beginning of last summer term. It was lunch-time and I was sitting at the same table as Gemma. She started complaining of a headache and, then, it looked like she might pass out or something."

Darcy must have noticed my expression because she nodded.

"You've seen her like that before, I take it?"

"Once or twice."

"She looked awful. So pale and glassy-eyed. I wanted to take her to the nurse's office, but she said she needed to get back to her room."

"What did you do?" Bernard asked.

Darcy shrugged

"I didn't want to argue with her, so I helped her back to the dorms. But when we got there," Darcy's brow creased, "I never would've believed it unless I saw it for myself."

"What was it?" Clive had his notebook out, pencil poised.

"Her room was covered in webs. Spider-webs. I mean everything was covered, you couldn't get into the room without breaking through hundreds of them. There were spiders, too, not as many as you'd think, but quite a few."  
"Silver ones?" Clive asked.

"That's right. We told my m-" Darcy's cheeks flushed slightly as she checked herself, "We told Mrs. Goodson, of course. She had the room cleaned up, but Vivian and the Patrol got wind of it all somehow. And then I started hearing the rumors, although more than half the people blabbing had no idea what they were talking about."

"What were the rumors?" I asked quietly, filled with a peculiar dread.

Darcy looked away.

"I don't believe a word of it, obviously, but the rumors are that Gemma is...that she's been cursed to become some kind of monster." she said quietly, "That she's Araneae reborn."

Bernard made a sound between a snort and a cough. We all turned to look at him and his ears flushed.

"What?" he said defensively, "This is what all the fuss is about? That stupid, hackneyed story? It's so asinine I can't even...I mean not even Mudget would believe in something like that."

Darcy folded her arms.

"Whether she does or not, it hasn't been easy for her. You don't hear many of the rumors anymore, but the damage has been done. Not to mention nobody has any idea why all those spiders decided to suddenly up and become her new roommates."

"Gemma..."

It all made sense now, the sideways glances, the whispers, the stony expressions whenever Gemma passed someone in the hallway. Gemma's spider-infested room had provided the perfect fuel for reigniting the old Araneae legend. I couldn't help but wonder, though, if the Patrol were also responsible for feeding the flames. Then again, last night Vivian had made it clear that the Patrol's mission was to find Araneae's eye and keep her from escaping. Gemma as Araneae did not seem to fit into their version of the story at all. Typical. Just when we thought we had finally exposed one mystery to the light, five more appeared in the shadows ahead.

Darcy gave us a half-hearted smile

"It's good to know she has some friends looking out for her now, at least."

"We need to find her." I said, "Thank you, Darcy."

"Of course."

The three of us pounded up the stairs and started briskly down the left hallway.

"Should we split up?" I asked, "I can check the girls' dorms, you two can look in the surrounding hallways. She couldn't have gone too far."

"Alright. Let's go, Bernard."

Reaching an intersection, Clive and Bernard peeled off to the right. I continued straight and wound my way through the corridors until I came to the dorm stairs. Up, through the long hallway, and finally to Gemma's door. She never kept it locked.

For a second, my hand hesitated on the handle, afraid of finding the same thing Gemma and Darcy had seen, but then I bit my lip and pushed the door open.

It was empty. No Gemma. No spiders. Just her usual happy clutter, as she called it. A tangle of blankets and stuffed animals on the bed, clothing draping the dresser, a thick volume of Greek myths lying spine up on the floor, a picture frame on her desk that caught the light streaming through the narrow window.

Wanting to catch my breath for a moment, I walked over to the desk and picked up the frame. I had seen the photo before, of course, but I never really had a chance to study it. It was a portrait of Gemma's family. Her father took up most of the frame. He was a heavy, balding man with Gemma's button nose and lively expression. At his side was Gemma's mother, an elegant woman with thick dark hair and a hint of pride in her smile, somehow familiar, her hand resting on Gemma's shoulder. And then there were her three younger siblings, two brothers in matching collared shirts and a little sleepy-eyed girl who couldn't have been more than three or four. I wondered if Gemma's family knew what she was experiencing at school. Were they an open kind of family that shared everything with each other or the closed door kind, where nothing was said out loud and you were left to guess in the dark? I hoped they were the kind Gemma could talk to about anything, the kind that opened their arms no matter what happened.

Giving the picture one last glance, I set it down and exited the room, continuing down the hall to the common room. A few girls were lounging here and there, but still no sign of Gemma. I walked back out of the dorms at a slower pace, running a list through my mind of Gemma's usual haunts. Once I reached the outside corridor, I glanced over to the stairs that lead to the fourth floor. She wouldn't have gone up there, would she? I didn't want to venture up there by myself. Before I could make a decision, however, Bernard came flying up the steps, taking them two at a time.

"Amelia, we found her."

I followed Bernard back down the stairs and through the maze until we turned a corner and entered an area of the school that was outside of my normal daily routes, but that looked vaguely familiar nonetheless. The end of the corridor opened up into what looked to be a round spacious room with a high domed ceiling. I narrowed my eyes.

"Is that...?"

"Yes."

Clive at the end of the corridor, peering around the wide doorway into what I now realized was the rotunda. As we quietly reached him, he stepped aside so we could look into the room for ourselves without being seen.

Amidst the widely spaced columns I could just make out Gemma's small figure, hunched upon an ornate bench under a large portrait of a man astride a rearing horse, her head buried in her arms.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned.

"Maybe...maybe you should talk to her first," Clive said softly.

"Me?" My stomach began to clamp up and I immediately latched onto to one of my braids, giving it fitful tugs. He was right, of course, but what was I suppose to say? What if I only made things worse?

Bernard and Clive were both watching me. Waiting to see what I'd do. I was sure they were even more at a loss than I was.

"We'll keep an eye out for patrollers." Clive said.

"Right." I replied, drawing in a deep breath, "Here I go."

I tentatively stepped into the rotunda and slowly made my way across the polished wood floor over to Gemma's hunched figure, forcing myself to keep my hands at my sides instead of threaded through my hair, pulling and sifting, like they so desperately wanted.

"Gemma?" I spoke up about half-way, not wanting to sneak up on her. As usual, my voice came out as merely a squeak.

"Gemma?" I repeated.

"Don't come any closer." came the wet, muffled reply, "I look hideous when I cry."

"Everyone's hideous when they cry." I said, trying to keep my voice light and casual. Truthfully, I felt even more hesitant. There were no definite rules when it came to tears. No specific steps that would ensure a victorious outcome, if victory was even something that could be achieved in situations like this. Perhaps this explained why I never knew what to do or say, always unsure if the person crying wanted comforting or if they were as embarrassed as I was and would rather be left alone.

Reaching Gemma, I moved to place a hand on her shoulder, hesitated, and dropped it by my side.

"Gemma?" I said for the third time. I was rigid and stiff and skinny and squeaky and in no way qualified to say anything meaningful.

Gemma sat up. For a second, she appeared almost unrecognizable. She had removed her glasses and her face was blotchy red and tear-stained.

"Gemma, Darcy told us about-about what happened." I said quickly. Twin fires were burning on my cheeks.

Gemma sniffed and swiped at her eyes, slipping her glasses off the collar of her shirt and putting them back on.

"It was bound to come out sooner or later." she, her voice still soggy, "Better Darcy than anyone else, I suppose."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked. I sat down beside her.

"I was hoping everyone would forget," Gemma said, "That it would all just go away and when I came back to Dreycott everything would be back to normal." she shook her head, "That first day back, no one wanted to be near me. You were the only one who was nice to me and-it sounds stupid now to say it out loud-but I thought if you knew, you wouldn't want to be friends anymore." Her voice feebly faded away as she turned to stare down at her shoes.

I tried meeting her eyes, but they remained fixed on the floor.

"Of course we're still friends."

"I know. I just should have told you. I'm sorry." Gemma gave me a weak sideways smile. It quickly faded. "But maybe it's better if everyone stays away from me. The more I think about it...maybe there is something wrong with me."

"Gemma, what do you mean?"

"I walk into my room and its covered in spider webs. Does that sort of thing happen to normal people?" Gemma buried her face in her hands, "I mean, what am I supposed to think? I don't really want to believe in that stupid legend or a curse or anything, but what other explanation is there?" she heaved a shaky sigh, "You grow up thinking the world is ordinary and boring, and that's, I dunno, comforting in a way, and then something like this happens...and I don't know what's real anymore. Especially now with this statue business. What if it's all real? What if I'm really..."

Again her voice trailed away as she swallowed heavily.

"Have you talked to your parents about any of this?"

Gemma put her hands down.

"You're joking, right? My mother, she would probably send me to a shrink or something. I wouldn't even know how to begin explaining it all to them."

"Okay, I think, well, maybe you should try. But we're going to help you figure this out, too."

"I don't know. Maybe we shouldn't. I think there's something bad in this school." she suddenly gripped my arm, her short nails cutting into my skin, "You didn't open the door, did you?" she whispered.

For a second I was at a loss for words, stunned by the amount of fear reflected in her eyes.

"No." I finally managed to get out, "We didn't."

"Good. Don't open it. Don't let Clive or anyone else open it. Don't go near it."

"Gemma, what-"

"Just promise me you won't go back to that room. Please." There was a hint of desperation in her voice. Her grip tightened.

"I promise." I didn't know what else to say.

Gemma released my arm.

"I'm sorry." she shut her eyes, "I'm sorry, that sounded really bonkers, didn't it? I don't know. _I don't know_ , Amelia. I have this memory. Of going through that door. Or no, it's not a memory...it's just this feeling..." She clutched her head, "I'm going crazy, aren't I?"

"Of course not. Crazy people don't ever worry that they might be crazy." I had no idea if this was really true, but it was the most comforting thing I could think of.

"I wish I could be logical like you, but I'm not." Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, "I'm scared."

I bit my lip, scrambling for words.

"I-I know. It does seem scary. But Gemma, there's a reasonable explanation. I'm sure there is. And all those rumors, they're just silly. Don't let them bother you for a second."

"Right." Clive had entered the rotunda and was striding towards us, "Whether it's related to the statue or not, we're going to get to the bottom of this, Gemma."

"Clive?" Gemma blinked, "Were you listening the whole time?"

Gemma and I stood as Clive reached us.

"Erm, actually, yes. But, listen, Gemma. I don't think you're cursed or any of that nonsense. I think there's someone out there who wants you, me, all of us, this whole school, to be frightened." He put a hand on her shoulder, "But if you're willing to face this, we can find the truth."

"That's right, Gemma." Following Clive's example, I reached out to put my hand on her other shoulder and attempted to give it a comforting pat, "You don't have to go it alone."

Gemma sniffed again and her tears rolled freely down her cheeks. Without warning, she threw her arms around the both of us, pulling us into a tight hug, salty-wet and warm. I thought I might suffocate sandwiched as I was between Gemma and Clive, whose face was red as a cherry, when Gemma looked up and loosened her grip.

A small figure was peeping around the doorway.

"Trewinkle?" Gemma's arms fell to her sides.

With hesitant, shuffling steps, Bernard moved toward us, wringing his hands.

"Listen. Mudget. I know I haven't been very...well, civil towards you. And I think I'd like to apologize for that, which is strange, because I usually never apologize but..." Bernard paused as Gemma started advancing towards him, a smile slowly spreading across her face. "Wait, what are you doing?" Bernard's eyes widened as Gemma came closer. He took a step back, "What? No. Don't touch me. Don't-egh!"

Gemma threw her arms around Bernard and lifted him off the ground, his feet dangling freely.

"Put me down." he rasped, his face squished against her chest, "Put. Me. Down."

"Sorry."

Gemma set him down as Clive and I joined the two of them in a circle.

"Does this mean we're on a first-name basis, now?" Gemma asked Bernard as she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand.

"What? Never. I mean you _are_ still the most annoying person I know."

"Good, thought I was talking to your nicer, noticeably taller twin there for a second."

"Ha, ha." Bernard said dryly, but he was smiling for once.

"We should probably get out of here now." I said, looking about the room, "I have a class I need to get to, besides."

"Right." Gemma gave a long, final sniff, "But we should do our secret handshake first."

There was a stunned pause.

"We don't have a secret handshake." Bernard said at last.

"I made one up last night. We have a proper name for our group. Now we need a proper secret handshake."

"About that name." Clive said as we started out of the rotunda.

Gemma turned to him with narrowed eyes.

"Oh, not you too. I don't suppose you have a better one."

"Actually... I do."

"Really?" Bernard said.

"Of course." With hooded eyes, Clive offered us a smile. "Clive and the Doves."

I whacked him on the arm.

"Shut up!"

"You're going to pay for that one, mate." Bernard said.

"Well, I think it's sort of catchy." Gemma said and it was a relief to hear the buoyancy returning to her tone, her eyes, "But it should be Clive and the Dovettes. We can have a secret signal that's like a dove's coo sort of sound and we can get matching t-shirts with your face on them, Clive. You are _very_ photogenic, after all. Such a strong jaw. Don't you think so, Amelia?"

"Er, what?" I sputtered.

"That's a yes and maybe we can even have special theme song. We would only sing it on very, very special occasions. It would go like this-"

"On second thought, I've changed my mind. The Notebook Gang is fine for now." Clive said.

Gemma grinned.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**The Story So Far. . .**

 _While investigating the black door beneath the cellar, Gemma inexplicably becomes frightened and runs away. In the course of tracking her down, Amelia, Clive, and Bernard learn the truth about her reputation and her connection to Araneae. After finally locating Gemma, the three affirm their intentions to help her unravel the mysteries that surround her. . ._

 **Chapter Fourteen**

Following the matter with Gemma, the weeks passed in smooth succession. Once more, solving the school's assorted mysteries fell by the wayside and shoveling away at the ever-growing mound of school work became the mutual top priority. All the while, January's frigid claws gradually retreated across London, trailing mist, and mud, and fragile green sprigs in their wake. Dour February gave way to kinder, but still capricious March and then the sixteenth arrived. The first birthday I was to spend at Dreycott. As it happened, it turned out to be quite the unorthodox one, although the day started off ordinary as one would like. Ordinary by Dreycott standards, anyway.

 _Smack_!

The ruler came down centimeters from Shelby's ear. He snapped upright like a well-oiled automaton, instantly at full alert along with every other pupil in the classroom, myself included.

"Mr. Walters." Mr. Ebengrew was now smacking the worn wooden ruler against his palm, glaring down at Shelby with weary irritation, his mouth small and pinched as his voice. "This is the third time in a single lesson."

"I'm sorry, sir." Shelby said, looking up at the middle-aged man with guilty eyes that were puffy from sleep, "I was up late, really late, writing a five page-" Shelby cut himself off with a yawn.

"That is absolutely no excuse, young-" Mr. Ebengrew yawned in unison with his wayward student.

A few sniggers sprang up around the room. Mr. Ebengrew promptly snapped his jaw shut and rapped on Shelby's desk with his ruler.

"Children, enough." He glanced at his wrist watch with a frown, "You are dismissed, but remember percentages and decimals _will_ be on the exam. And we will not be covering either again. Study up. Those exercises are due tomorrow."

Before he had even uttered the word "dismissed", students were already gathering papers and scraping chairs as they made their way to the door, fording feeble streams of sunlight that pushed in through the latticework windows.

Tucking my homework away, I slipped my own bag over my shoulder and picked my way around the clusters of desks, towards Mr. Ebengrew's own.

He did not appear to see me at first. With the corner of his ruler, he was tracing faint scratches that marred the desk's dark finish, his head slumped against one fist.

I cleared my throat.

The maths teacher looked up, his ruler now poised between two fingers.

"Oh. Miss Ruth."

His eyes were bleary, shot with veiny red, while his hair looked more like a rooster's plume than its usual slick comb-over.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but I wanted to ask you about last weeks' homework. On converting decimals?"

"Hmm, yes, what about it?"

I slipped a folder out of my bag and removed a worksheet dotted with red x's.

"You marked seven wrong, but I was sure I was doing it right. I think I must have missed something." I paused, "Would you have time to go through a few of the problems really quick?"

I always hated asking for additional help on school work, but keeping my marks high was important to me and, I figured, worth sacrificing a bit of my dignity.

Mr. Ebengrew took the worksheet and scanned it briefly.

"I see. _However_ , I'm afraid I simply don't have time to offer each and every student individualized tutoring. I suggest rereading chapter fifteen of the textbook. That should clear things up."

There was a note of finality in his voice.

"Oh." I could hear frustration seeping into my own voice and attempted a politer inflection, "I'll be sure to do that." I took the worksheet back from Mr. Ebengrew, "H-have a good day, sir."

"What? Oh, hmm, yes."

I turned and silently made my way across the room and out into the hallway, which had already cleared. Stopping to put my worksheet back into its folder, I allowed myself a moment to stew.

I hadn't been looking for individualized tutoring. All I really wanted to know was what I had done to miss seven problems with answers I had been sure of. Maths was generally not an issue for me, even taught by Mr. Ebengrew who liked peppering his lectures with complex terminology and university-level theorems. Every once in a while, though, I would hit a rough patch, something that took me awhile to fully grasp. I'd always gotten by with a nudge of assistance, but this term Mr. Ebengrew had even less patience than usual. He was perpetually exhausted and frequently flying off the handle over the smallest of things. His demeanor seemed an amplification of the general attitude I'd noticed hanging over most of the teachers. Although, in contrast to Mr. Ebengrew, some did not seem to care at all what sort of shenanigans went on in their classroom, delivering lessons in a sleepy-eyed stupor that even the most dedicated of listeners found difficult to bare.

"Hey, c-c'mon, fellows."

The voice was floating nervously from down the left-hand corridor of a nearby intersection. It sounded like Shelby's. Treading quietly, I reached the junction and pressed my back against the wall, twisting my head so I could peer around the corner without being seen. Two patrollers had hung Shelby by his enormous backpack on an ornate sconce. His arms clung tightly to the straps as his shoes kicked and knocked against the wallpaper.

"We heard you fell asleep in class again."

The two were Felix's cronies, part of a gaggle of C-list patrollers whose names I had never bothered to sort out. By some demented twist of fate, they looked remarkably similar, both sporting greasy custard bowl-cuts and noses like scissor blades.

"Y-yes, on accident. You see, ah, ha-ha, fellows, I was up 'til three last night working on a p-paper for m-my b-biology class."

One of the patrollers folded his arms as he clicked his tongue.

"Don't you think poor Mr. Ebengrew deserves a smidge more respect than that?"

"Of course he does. Absolutely he does. It won't happen again. I p-promise."

"No, it won't. 'Cause you're not going to set a fat toe in Mr. Ebengrew's classroom without checking with us first."

"Yeah," The other cut in, "And if you look the least bit dozy, it'll be off to detention with you. Five hours minimum."

"Okay. I understand. P-please let me down now?"

Scissor Nose #1 scratched his chin, contemplating.

"Hmm. We might have to confiscate this backpack."

#2 gave the backpack a small push and it began to swing side-to-side turning Shelby into a human pendulum. He shut his eyes, gripping the straps even tighter.

"Not the backpack. Please. I-I've got allergies. All my stuff is in here."

"Important stuff, eh? Let's have a lookie."

Steadying the swinging backpack with one hand, #1 reached over Shelby's head and snatched the zipper.

I had seen enough. Mentally injecting myself with a dose of iron, I forced myself away from the wall and rounded the corner. The attention of the three boys whipped in my direction.

"Ruth," #1 said in blasé greeting, clearly annoyed I had interrupted.

"Hello," I said, trying my best to keep my voice steady, to remain cool and impassive. _Think of it like a chess match_ , I told myself, _watch your opponent and counter their moves until you have the upper hand_. I glanced at Shelby, "What's going on?"

#2 grinned at my apparent naivety.

"Standard pat-down. Who knows what contraband this rascal is hiding in this enormous rucksack."

"It's-it's really fine, Amelia." The misery was apparent in every aspect of Shelby's face, from his downcast eyes to his sagging chin, "I... actually don't mind being up here. The view is nice."

The two patrollers looked at one another and burst out laughing.

"Don't you two have...ah." As the pair continued to stare at me, the words turned to slush in my mouth, as though the heat prickling across my cheeks had melted them, "Er, ah..."

No. No. Why did this always happen? Why couldn't I keep myself together like I did when I was sitting before the chessboard, always able to calculate correctly, always able to remain in control. Out here I had no control, no idea what I was doing.

"Aww, she's shy." #1 rolled his eyes, "Spit it out already."

"Class. Don't you have a class to get to?" I finally blurted.

"As if that's any of your business, junior." #2 said. With a careless swivel of his wrist, he lifted the backpack's taut handle up and over the sconce, Shelby dangling precariously, before abruptly releasing it. With a yelp and a thump, boy and backpack hit the floor. "Don't you have a dusty library nook that needs polishing?"

"Yeah," #1 chipped in, "This is our route. Stay out of it."

The two patrollers stepped over Shelby, who was lying on his back like a flipped turtle, and tramped off, casting nasty looks over their shoulders.

"Whew," Shelby wheezed. He started flailing his stubby arms and legs, trying to right himself. "Little help?"

I quickly pulled him to his feet.

"Thanks, Amelia." he said, as dusted off his uniform, "You showed up in the nick of time. If they would've opened my backpack and found I still carried around Teddy-wuggles, I might've perished." Shelby grinned sheepishly, "Whoops. Said too much, haven't I?"

"It was nothing." I said, still keeping a wary eye on the twin patrollers' retreating forms, "I'll see you at chess club tomorrow."

"See ya!"

Gripping his backpack straps, Shelby darted off down the corridor.

As soon as he was out of sight, my composure left me. I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes, pushing back my bangs. My heart pulsed in my eardrums. I let out a long, lingering sigh, trying to slow it, but doing so only made me more conscious of the knot tightening in my stomach.

Darcy's warnings had proven to be prophetic. Only three months on the Patrol and I was already on the brink of quitting. Sitting at the obligatory table for every meal, listening to wave after wave of worthless conversations driven by Vivian and Felix's egos, constantly circumnavigating the rumors and lies that were always rattling through the ranks, receiving cold looks and hot words whenever I attempted to stand against the general policy of coercion and fear as I had tried doing just now...all of it was hacking at my resolve, at what little courage I possessed. I was a stick being whittled down to nothing. Who knew what would happen when I reached toothpick status? Would I just snap in two?

If I was honest, there was really only one thing stopping me from making my desire to quit a reality. Or rather, one _person_. Clive still held out that I might learn something important on Patrol, be privy to information the average student could not access. Unfortunately, apart from that perplexing initiation, the only thing I had learned was that all my thoughts and feelings towards the group were rightly justified. But how was I supposed to explain that to Clive?

 _Oh, well. No point thinking about that now._

Finally pulling myself away from the wall, I continued down the corridor. I was late for the one good thing that had come out of my joining Patrol.

Rounding a few corners, I arrived at the library. I passed students, chairs, shelves, even the chess table without a second glance, slipping behind the reception desk and into the back, back room where I was met with a now familiar scent. It was the scent of time, of centuries passing in a small space that saw little change other than the affairs of beetles and mice, seasoned with fine dust, brittle pages, faded ink, and mildew stains. The library's storage room was brighter than it had been back in January, thanks to the addition of several old reading lamps placed strategically along the floor. The number of books had dwindled just enough to create a winding, narrow path that lead straight through to the back.

"Ms. Giltwing?"

The librarian appeared from behind a craggy tower of hardbacks, bracelets and earrings tingling like wind chimes. She was all in faux turquoise satin today that shimmered with a fairy light.

"Just in time, love."

She gestured to the surrounding towers with a flourish.

"Ten more stacks of fiction to sort through, then it will finally be on to the non-fiction. I'm never much been one to peep through the rose-tinted lenses , but even _I_ can admit we've made progress."

The room still contained more books than several small libraries combined, but from the perspective of one who had been working in the storage room for several months now, she was right, we had made decent progress.

"I guess I'll finish up this stack first."

I walked over to a stack that went a little past my knees and picked up the top-most book, flipping through it. A cloud of dust drifted up from the pages, tingling my nose and causing my eyes to water. I sneezed. Ms. Giltwing smiled, sun-kissed wrinkles folding and crinkling around her eyes.

"Blessings. I've got some work out front that needs doing, then I'll come and join you."

I didn't need any further prompting. After my encounter with Custard Heads One and Two, I was in need of a relaxing, if somewhat mindless, activity. I set the book back down and picked up nearly half the stack, lugging it over to a small stool. Settling down, I began sorting my way through the books, checking for damage of any sort: water stains, torn or missing pages, mold, frayed bindings. The books were in dreadful condition and many of the ones I examined would simply have to be tossed. It was a shame. Quite a few appeared to be early editions of well-known classics, but as Ms. Giltwing had told me many times (and in a rather disgruntled tone, I might add), the school was not willing to pay for even the smallest amount of repair work. Those with minimal damage Ms. Giltwing would fix up herself as best she could before cataloguing and giving each a permanent home on one of the library's shelves.

I was nearly finished with my stack when I picked up a slim book that had been torn from its cover completely, leaving the thing naked and small, bound together by glue that was probably as old as my grandad. It was a French novel, but more intriguing to me were the extensive notes scrawled in the margins in a narrow cursive script that was practically illegible. As I carefully turned pages that crackled stiffly between my fingers, a creamy envelope slipped out and drifted to the floor. I picked it up and turned it over. The address written on the back was penned in the same unreadable ink.

Aware of a rather peculiar feeling that chased goose bumps up my arms, I picked at the already broken seal until the flap was loose enough for me to lift without tearing it. Gingerly, I pulled out a folded square of paper tucked inside. Unfolding it and smoothing it on my knee, I noticed that the handwriting matched that of the book, but was much less headache inducing, as if the writer had put effort into making his or her penmanship more readable. My eyes swept each line slowly.

 _Thisbe,_

 _Summer. I dreaded it all school year and I continue to dread it every morning as I wake up and every night as I go to bed. Is it even possible to dread something that you are already in the middle of? I don't know how else to explain it. This feeling of waiting for each day to be over only to realize another one will take its place that promises to be even worse._

 _I should apologize. I don't mean to spoil your own holiday. But there is no else I can talk to. I only ask that you listen._

 _But please, don't pity me. Never pity me._

 _My family is more miserable now then ever, so much so that I am almost glad that you are not able to visit. If you did you would not ever again be able to tell me I should make the best of it. It's mostly my father, as I've explained to you before. Just the way he looks at me, the way he speaks, I see how much he despises me. Always besmirching the family name, always wrong, impudent, never good enough for his impossible standards. But what does he have to be so high and mighty about? We're close to losing the estate, to losing everything. I didn't tell you before because I didn't want you to worry, but now I realize how impossible it would be to continue to keep it a secret from you._

 _Anyway, my father. He's always tossing money into some business venture that inevitably collapses. Borderline shady business, I should add. Doesn't he ever learn? Then he turns right around and criticizes mother for how much she spends on doctors and medications and treatments. And Marcy caught in the middle of it all._

 _I wish I could take her away from here. It's probably this house that is making her sick. The house, and father, and this rotting, miserable city._

 _You could go with me. Then we'd never have to think of the school or its secrets again._

 _Sorry. I shouldn't have written that. Not after how hard we've worked. How hard you've worked. I want to know the truth, too. But there are times when I think it doesn't matter. Do we really need to know? Maybe there is a reason so much has been lost and hidden away._

 _I apologize again for sounding so wretched, but today was nothing if not wretched. When I finally was able to get up to my room the only thing I wanted to do was write to you. I just can't keep bottling everything up. I tried that once and nearly drowned from the inside out._

 _Please write back soon._

 _Pyramus_

 _PS - I've awakened to discover it was all a dream. Now I can only scribble on the walls as the bells toll: Ananke. Fate._

When I reached the end of the letter, I read through it again, then a third time, my mind reeling.

 _Marcy._

That was the word that stood out to me the most. It was the same name as the one mentioned in the letter I had read last term, the one I'd found slipped amongst my other post. That letter had been written by someone calling herself Beatrice, addressed to one Dante, whose sister had been named Marcy. Could Dante have possibly written this second letter? But, then, why were the names different?

"Amelia?"

I looked up. Ms. Giltwing was standing over me, fiddling with a topaz ring the size of a dormouse, head cocked.

"Oh! Sorry." I stood, "I wasn't paying attention."

"Find something?" There was a glimmer in the librarian's eye. She was always on the look out for literary treasures.

"Yes, an old letter, actually." I handed the librarian the letter and she quickly scanned through it with pursed lips.

"Pyramus and Thisbe?"

"Do those names...do they sound at all familiar to you?"

Ms. Giltwing chuckled.

"Certainly. Your letter writer was either quite arrogant or quite romantic. In all senses of the word."

"What do you mean?"

"Pyramus and Thisbe are fictitious, love. Originating from the mythology of the Greeks. Ovid wrote about them. Shakespeare, too. Star-crossed lovers and all that wonderful nonsense, you know."

She handed the letter back to me.

"I imagine your letter writer and his recipient were simply using nicknames. Rather bookish terms of endearment, if you will. Sounds like something I would do in my youth. Not that any of my beaus knew a wit about Ovid. Brutes, one and all. Handsome brutes, but still. There was one fellow who was rather sweet on me when I was sixteen, a certain devil named Clarence, who-"

"What about Dante and Beatrice?" I interrupted.

"Hm?"

I twisted the end of one of my braids round my finger.

"I found another letter, a few months back, written by someone named Beatrice addressed to Dante."

"Ah." Ms. Giltwing smiled, "Dante Alighieri, my dear. He wrote _The Divine Comedy_ in...1321? Maybe it was 1320. Anyway, Beatrice was the girl he fell in love with when he was only nine-years-old. She died quite young, though. Tragic, but it did allow Dante to give her a pivotal role in his poem."

"Book characters." I said slowly, finally making the connection, "They're all book characters."

"Characters from literature, yes."

The tip of my finger was turning red as I continued to wrap my hair tighter around it.

"But why would you use the names of fictional characters in your letters? Why not use your real names?"

"As I said, nicknames, perhaps. Or maybe our writers had something to hide and wished to remain anonymous."

I stared down at the frail letter in my hands, my curiosity thoroughly whetted.

 _Then we'd never have to think of the school or its secrets again._

Someone else had caught on to Dreycott's myriad of enigmas. How long ago, I wasn't quite sure. The more pressing question was whether or not they had ever found the answers they had been looking for.

"Would it be alright if I keep this?" I asked, looking up at Ms. Giltwing.

The librarian stroked her chin.

"I don't see why not. We don't know the true name of the recipient, so there's really no way to return it."

I glanced around at the towers of books still waiting to be sorted.

"Sorry, I sort of got off task."

"Oh, never mind that for now. I came back here to tell you there's a young man out front wanting to speak with you."

"Oh?"

"A Mr. Dove, to be more precise. He looks to be in some hurry." Ms. Giltwing waved a bejeweled hand, "Go and run along now, dear. You can't keep your friend waiting."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite. After all, you have until summer to sit back here and play book coroner. Hm-mm-mm. _Book corone_ r. That's a bit of morbid book humor, dear."

"Okay, then. I'll see you tomorrow, Ms. Giltwing."

Slipping the letter in my bag, I exited the back room and came out behind the desk. Clive was leaning against it, flipping through a stray book someone had left on the countertop's edge.

"Hey,"

Clive looked up, brushing the bangs from his eyes.

"Hey. Are you busy?"

"Ms. Giltwing said I could be done for the day." I noted his preoccupied frown, "Is something the matter?"

"Not really. I was just wondering if you wanted to go down into the room again. To give it another once over."

I heaved a small sigh.

"A _fourth_ over, you mean."

We had been down in Clive and Bernard's "secret hideout" three times since learning that there was possibly another puzzle woven into the back wall of the small, cluttered room, but each search had come up empty. That is to say, the wall had come up empty. It was as smooth and blank as a sheet of paper.

"I think we need to approach it from another angle."

Clive and I started out of the library together at a brisk pace, heading for the dead end corridor which held the entrance to the passageway.

"I don't see what other angle there could possibly be. The diagram showed the puzzle was on the back wall. We've gone over it hundreds of times. All of the walls."

"It's got to be there."

"Do you think it's really that important?"

Clive didn't hesitate in his answer.

"The more we know about this school and its secrets, any secrets, the better. Besides, we've got to investigate _something_ while we're waiting for the Statue to show up."

"I suppose that's true." I replied. I really didn't mind searching again, but each previous trip down to the hidden room had only seemed to increase Clive's frustration and impatience. If we failed to find anything a fourth time, I wasn't sure what he would do. Hopefully, he wouldn't try to hack down the wall with a sledgehammer or something. Not that he was a violent person, only that he possessed an adamancy to unravel Dreycott's mysteries that was at times feverish in its intensity. He could be so single-minded I often worried if he remembered to eat and sleep properly. Glancing at his stubbornly set jaw, I wondered, now as many times before, what made him drive himself so hard.

"Where are Gemma and Bernard, by the way?" I asked, trying to lift our conversation to a lighter topic.

"Already down there."

"Hmm." My thoughts had turned back to the letter in my bag. I had never told Clive about the first letter, not thinking it particularly relevant and then forgetting about it after the end of last term. But the second letter seemed to indicate the anonymous pen pals were trying to uncover something at the school and I couldn't help but wonder if it was somehow connected to the Statue or even Araneae.

"I found something when I was sorting through books."

"You found something?"

"An old letter. But the funny thing is, I think it's linked to a different letter I found." I told Clive about the two letters, starting with the one Gemma had inadvertently given me and ending by showing him the second one.

Clive read through it quickly, his feet never slowing.

"Why do you think they've hid their true identities?"

"I have no idea. I was hoping you might be able to tell me."

Clive handed me the letter as we turned onto the dead end corridor. We made directly for the dreary portrait of the woman holding a small white dog on her lap.

"Keep those letters safe. You never know."

We waited for a minute or two to make sure no patrollers were heading our direction. When we were certain, Clive pulled open the painting and quickly punched in the answer to the riddle. The wall slid away and we entered the low tunnel, Clive's torch leading the way. I saw the familiar flicker of candlelight at the end of the passage and then two tall shadows thrown against the far wall, accompanied by voices, one loud, the other soft and scowly.

"There. Doesn't that look nice?"

"No."

As I stepped into the room, the first thing that caught my attention was a great number of balloons, swelled like ripe fruit, that were alighted upon boxes and drifting across the floor in cheery shades of orange and yellow. Red crepe streamers were hung from the ceiling, except for one which was a tangled mass in Gemma's arms. She stood on tiptoe upon a box pushed against the right wall, trying to affix the decoration to the ceiling with masking tape. Bernard watched from his spot curled up on the settee, balancing a severe looking book on his lap. As I stepped further into the room, his attention shifted.

"There you two are," he said, sitting up straight as he slammed his book shut, "Get lost on the way down?"

"Er, what's going on?" I asked, gently nudging a balloon with my foot. Of course, I already knew exactly what was going on. The room's temperature had been rising steadily ever since I had crossed the threshold and my stomach had started bobbing even more than the balloons surrounding me.

" _What's going on_?" Gemma repeated, hopping down from her box. With a frustrated frown, she ripped the streamer from her arms and crumpled it into a ball, "What do you mean? It's your birthday, isn't it?"

She suddenly grabbed my hands, a horrified look in her eyes, "Don't tell me I got the day wrong. Gosh, I did, didn't I?"

"It's today," I managed

"Whew." Gemma released me from her grip, "That's a relief. Let me start over." She scooped up an armful of balloons off the floor and tossed them at me, "Happy birthday, Amelia!"

She turned to Bernard who had been sitting silently, arms crossed.

"C'mon, Trewinkle..." she prodded.

His scowl deepened.

"I already told you, Mudget. The concept of the modern birthday party is nothing more than an invention of faceless corporations designed to sell overpriced cards and wrapping paper. Just another symptom of our commercialized, self-indulgent society." He turned to me, "Nothing personal, Amelia."

Gemma snorted.

"Who even says stuff like that?"

"It's your birthday today?" Clive was standing beside me now, head cocked slightly.

"Well, yes."

I was blushing furiously. The worst part was I wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was only because I was being put on the spot. The mixture of emotions twisting inside me felt too tightly intertwined to name or sort out, none of them really good or bad, but rather every shade in between. Could I simply be homesick? I'd never celebrated a birthday away from home before, after all. I felt there was more to it than that, but I was going to have to think on it later. Bernard, Gemma, and Clive were all looking at me with rather unsure expressions, which only sharpened my embarrassment.

"Sorry." I forced a paltry smile on my lips, "It looks nice. Thank you for remembering."

This was addressed mainly to Gemma, whose shoulders relaxed as she returned my smile with a far more genuine one. Clive appeared to be studying me, but when I glanced at him he quickly looked away.

"I brought snacks, too." Gemma said, dragging her bag over to the settee and producing a selection of prepackaged junk food, chocolate chip cookies, cheese curls, flavored crisps, and several bags of neon-colored sweets, everything my mother would never think of buying and that my grandad would smuggle into the house as often as he could.

I sat down on the settee next to Bernard, Gemma dragged up a box, and Clive took a wooden chair.

"Well, now that we're all here," he said, as we all nibbled on Gemma's snacks, "Let's brainstorm a bit."

"There's nothing left to brainstorm." Bernard said, brushing crumbs from his shirt, "There's clearly no puzzle on the wall. No hidden switches or buttons or what have you. Nothing."

"A bit of a brainstorm isn't going to cut it. What we need is...a cerebral cyclone!" Gemma moved her hands about the air, creating stormy sound effects that involved much whooshing and a bit of flying spittle.

"It doesn't matter how much we think about it." Bernard persisted, "The diagram was wrong. There is no puzzle. Can't we just accept that? Clive?"

Clive didn't respond. He was paging through his notebook. Bernard rolled his eyes.

"You know, I've been thinking," Gemma paused, as if daring Bernard to add a snide comment, "What if finding the puzzle is part of the puzzle?"

"Now, there's an interesting thought." Clive said, looking up at her, "But all we have to go on is a blank wall."

"An invisible puzzle..." I said absent-mindedly, musing aloud.

"An invisible puzzle. Yes, that must be it!" Gemma stood up, clasping her hands together.

"Listen to yourselves. An invisible puzzle?" Bernard said, "What does that even mean?"

"Invisible to the naked eye, maybe." Clive said.

"Great. Just let me go snitch my dad's microscope and maybe we can find a bacterium with another riddle for us."

"Hey, what about invisible ink or something like that? You know, like, ermmm, lemon juice?" Gemma said.

"Would that work on a stone surface?" I asked.

"Probably not, but it's got me thinking..." Clive stood up, "Help me blow out these candles."

"All of them?" Bernard asked.

"All of them."

We did as he said. The room dimmed until Gemma extinguished the final flame, allowing darkness to envelop us. Clive clicked on his torch.

"Over here."

We gathered around the back wall and he switched off his torch. A minute or two passed in silence, then, faintly, like the moon filtering through mist, faint greenish-white letters shone out against the darker backdrop of the wall.

"Whoa." Gemma breathed, "We were right."

"I'm guessing it's some sort of phosphorescent paint."

"Listen..."I said, squinting at the first word, "Listen to..."

"Listen to silence." Clive finished. "That's all it says."

"Listen to silence. Some puzzle." Bernard grumbled.

"Let's re-light these candles and think on it."

Clive flicked on his torch again, allowing Gemma to locate the box of matches. As she began relighting each wick I gazed about the room, turning the words over in my head. How exactly did one listen to silence? And how exactly did doing so add up to a puzzle that could possibly open up another passageway?

As the room grew brighter, my eyes turned to the old gramophone huddled in the corner.

"What about that?"

"The gramophone?" Gemma asked.

"Well... it's something you can listen to."

"But that's just it." Clive said, "We're trying to figure out a way to listen to nothing."

"Nothing is still something." Bernard said, "And silence and nothing are not exactly the same thing."

Now it was Gemma's turn to roll her eyes.

"We're trying to solve the puzzle, not make it even more complicated."

"Any other ideas?" I asked, trying to keep the two on track.

Everyone replied with frowns and eyes that shifted to the ceiling or floor. Finally, Gemma looked up.

"I say we try out your idea. It wouldn't hurt anyway."

She went over to the gramophone and, bending over, attempted to pick it up.

"Ugh, it weighs a ton or it's stuck or something!"

Bernard, Clive, and I went over and surrounded the battered piece of machinery. The horn was so dented it looked like it had weathered a hail storm at some point in time. Gemma stepped aside, allowing Clive to kneel down and examine it.

"I'm not sure if it even works."

"Let's find a record and try it out." Gemma was already digging through a box of newspapers.

"This is a waste of time." Bernard countered, "'Listen to silence'. Maybe it's an anagram?"

Clive whipped out his notebook and quickly wrote down the three words: LISTEN TO SILENCE.

"Okay, let's see..." He began writing down strings of letters, short words, and fragmented phrases, "Nicest...nettles...in close...noise."

"Noise, that's interesting." I said.

"Okay, noise. Er, noise..."

"Intellects," Bernard said.

"Noise intellects?"

Bernard shrugged.

"Just a guess."

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gemma had gone back to sit by the gramophone and was fiddling with the stylus.

"Solstice." Bernard said, "Solstice...lent?"

"Insect." I said, sorting through the letters in my head, "Er, loneliest?"

There came a crackling noise from behind us, then faint, scratchy music. An airy waltz.

"What about selection?" Clive murmured, "Election?"

The music faded, replaced by a far louder sound, a grinding, shuddering groan that shook the entire room. We all turned towards the back wall just in time to see a panel sliding down into the floor, the candlelight barely lapping at the entrance to another passageway. As one, we looked over at Gemma who was cranking the gramophone, a record spinning on its turntable. She grinned up at us.

"It's a record labeled 'Silence'." she said, "I found it in that crate over there."

A few seconds of a different sort of silence lapsed, then Clive nodded, clearly impressed.

"Nice work, Gemma. I have to say I feel a bit of an idiot right now."

"So, the answer was literally listening to 'Silence'." I said, "Huh."

"Save the applause." Gemma stood, giving us a small bow and a wink, "Let's explore this puppy."

"Not me." Bernard said, as we turned once more to the dark entrance, "I've decided I'm not going through any more secret passageways. We've really no idea how structurally sound any of them are."

"You never make things easy, do you? Come _on,_ Trewinkle!" Gemma latched onto Bernard's hand as she ducked into the tunnel, but he quickly wrenched himself away, wiping his hand on his pants as if it were contaminated, "How many times must I tell you not to touch me? Do you not have _any_ sense of personal boundaries? Or do you just keep mistaking me for a five-year-old?"

"Careful," Clive said, cracking a small smile, "He'll start swearing."

"I just might and I would only apologize to Amelia. She's the only decent one around here."

"UGH. Enough. Let's go." Gemma grabbed Clive's torch from off the settee and started down the tunnel

"She's rather eager today." Clive murmured to me, as the three of us followed her in. I nodded, but silently I felt as though Gemma's enthusiasm went beyond a single day. Ever since we'd found out the truth about why many students avoided her, she had been nearly as determined as Clive to make a breakthrough in the investigation.

The passageway was virtually identical to the one that lead to the secret room. A network of pipes, their purposes unknown, tangled overhead, while from below I could just catch the scuffle of small feet. I imagined tiny paws and whiskered noses quivering with the unfamiliar scent of four children stumbling into the unknown. Bernard's comment was making me paranoid. I kept glancing about to make sure the walls were not about to cave in, burying us forever beneath the school.

We walked at a steady, but cautious pace for nearly five minutes as the tunnel curved and twisted around on itself until finally we stopped at the foot of a set of wooden stairs. Gemma pounded to the top and stood on the landing, patting what looked to be another stone wall.

"Dead end." she declared.

"Wait." Clive flicked off his torch and took several steps back. He tilted back his head and I followed his gaze to the overhang above the stairs. I could just make out a few ghostly green words shimmering against the stone.

" _Tread with silence, but skip the silent step_."

"Again with the silence." Bernard said, "It's getting to be redundant."

"The solution to the second puzzle was fairly straightforward," I said, "Maybe this one's the same way."

"So, we walk up the stairs quietly?" Gemma was standing on the bottom step now. She turned on her heel and tiptoed up the stairs. When she reaching the landing she looked back at us.

"Nope. That wasn't it."

"Skip the silent step..." Clive switched his torch back on and shone it over the stairs, "Gemma go down the stairs again. See if there are any that don't creak."

Gemma did so. Each one had its own peculiar groan.

"Hmm."

"Wait."

Bernard knelt down next to the bottom step.

"There's a letter carved into this step."

Clive and I came closer, bringing the light with us.

"D,"

We looked further up the steps. Each flat-lying wood plank had a small letter etched deeply into its surface.

"D, S, O, P, I, T, L, S, E..."

Gemma snapped her fingers.

"We have to spell the word silence!" she said, "We have to step on the stairs that spell silence!"

"I'll try it." Clive skipped the "D" step and started on up, spelling "silence" with his feet.

S...I...L...E...N...C...E

I held my breath as he reached the stop, but still nothing happened.

"What the dibble!" Gemma said, "What did we do wrong?"

"We forgot about the second part," Clive replied, as he descended the steps, "Skip the silent step."

"Skip the silent step," Bernard repeated, "But how do we figure out which one is silent?"

At this, the four of us fell quiet as each of us pondered the question. How could a step be silent if it creaked? Unless, it wasn't referring to the sound it made at all. In that case...

"It's 'e'." I said.

"What?" Clive blinked.

"'E'. In the word 'silence' the _e_ is silent."

"Of course!"

"Brilliant." Clive walked up the steps again spelling out silence, all except the e, which he deftly skipped.

There was a sharp click. Gemma took a step back as the wall rotated slightly, its left side scraping back onto the landing while its right side slid inward, allowing a crack of fresh air and bright light into the passage. My ears tingled as something metallic clattered onto the landed.

As Clive retrieved the fallen item, Bernard and I hurried up the steps.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Not sure." He dropped the item in my palm. It was a heavy cylindrical rod, no more than one or two centimeters around crafted from dark greenish metal. A dull, faceted blue stone was set into the top of one end.

"Let me see." Gemma took the object and rolled it between her fingers.

"Hold onto it, Gemma." Clive said.

Gemma nodded, her fingers curling tightly around the object.

"Where do you think this lets out?" Bernard asked, indicating the sliver of light.

"Only one way to find out. Help me."

The four of us put our hands against the right side of the wall and pushed. With a sudden lurch, it rotated further pulling us all out into bright light and the burble of water. We stumbled away from the wall. Blinking, nearly blinded, I gave my eyes a moment to adjust. A jolt passed through me as soon as I realized where we had ended up. The patroller lounge. I turned around and saw the we had entered through one of the bookcases, which had rotated so that it stood wedged in the doorway, one half still in the lounge and the other in the passage. Clive, Gemma, and Bernard were looking about with somewhat dazed expressions.

"Maybe we should go ba-"

"Hey!"

We turned as one in the direction of the tall bay window. Framed by the pale sunlight streaming through, Trevor was striding our way, gorilla arms swinging, his expression smoldering with a mixture of bafflement and outrage. "How did you get in here?"

As he came closer, his gaze shot past us, to the rotated book case. His beady eyes widened behind his spectacles.

"You came from there? But how did you-"

"It was a mistake," I said, the words slipping out in a jumbled rush, "We-we didn't know it would let out here."

Trevor shouldered his way past the four of us and stuck his head into the passage.

"Can it really be...?" His voice had become tinged with peculiar yearning. He turned around, "Did you find something in there?"

Automatically, my eyes flew to the small rod that Gemma was still clutching. Trevor followed my glance. His eyes grew wider.

"Give it to me!" He shot out a beefy hand to snatch it from Gemma's grip, but she quickly stepped back, clasping the piece to her chest. Trevor started towards her, fists clenched.

"Look, you're in enough trouble as it is, trespassing here. Hand it over now and maybe Vivian will let you off easy."

" _We_ solved the puzzles. _We_ found it." Gemma said. There was a ferocity in her eyes, an unyielding determination in the sharp jut of her chin. Taking another step back, she bumped into a bookcase and her expression wavered. Trevor had her backed into a corner. With one hand he latched onto her wrist, and with the other dug into her fingers, trying to pry the rod from her grip.

" _Hey_!"

" _I said give it to_ -"

His voice was reduced to a surprised " _urk_!" as Clive sprang forward and wrapped his arms around the boy's beefy neck. Trevor released Gemma, staggering backwards under Clive's weight, his face boiling red.

Whatever daze I had been under suddenly lifted. I ran to Gemma and grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the bookcase just as Trevor swung around and slammed Clive straight into its shelves.

" _Oof_!"

The impact had loosened Clive's grip. He slid to the floor amidst a shower of tumbling books only to have Trevor immediately yank him to his feet by his collar.

"Dove," he snarled, "Of course you're involved in all this. Are you sure you want to add interfering with a patroller to your _dangerously_ long list of transgressions?"

"And when did attacking other students become a part of the job description?" Clive choked. Now his own face was turning a purplish-red as Trevor gripped his collar increasingly tighter.

"Stop it!"

"Let him go!"

Gemma and I made to rush towards Trevor together, but Bernard blocked our way.

"Are you crazy!?" he hissed.

"He needs our help!"

Before Gemma could break past Bernard, Trevor roughly shoved Clive aside, sending him crashing into a nearby potted plant.

"Clive!" The word escaped of its own accord.

Bernard, Gemma, and I scrambled towards him, but Trevor blocked our path, stretching himself up to his full height.

"This is between me and him."

A growing murmur of excitement bounced off the high ceiling. I whipped my head around. Patrollers were drawing closer from all corners of the room, lured by the scent of inevitable conflict.

"Fine. You can have it." Gemma said, her expression still defiant. She held out the jeweled rod to Trevor. He shook his head as he slipped his tiny spectacles off and tucked them safely away in a pocket inside of his jacket.

"Too late."

Trevor turned and grabbed Clive by the back of his jacket, roughly hauling him to his feet yet again and then shoving him backwards onto the tiled floor. The crowd drew closer, humming like wasps now, creating an ever tightening circle around the five of us, closing off any chance of escape.

"This has been a long time coming, Dove. Let's finish it, then. Right here. Right now."

"Someone's sounding a bit disagreeable. Forgot to get a nap in today, Trevor?"

Clive staggered to his feet, steeling himself behind a wily smile. His eyes, however, were flashing for a way out.

Trevor cracked his knuckles, each joint popping succinctly as he advanced.

"You can't snark your way out of this one."

With a roar, he let swing a massive fist. It hurtled through the air like a runaway freight train, missing Clive's head by centimeters as he ducked and tucked his body into a summersault, rolling just beyond Trevor's reach. He pushed himself to his feet and backed to the edge of the crowd.

"Pretty good. I mean you were going for dying whale with that battle cry, weren't you?" Clive tilted his head in mock confusion, "Or was it frustrated neanderthal?"

Trevor's second roar was even more guttural. He swung again, quicker this time and managed to clip Clive in the jaw. The latter reeled backwards into the now cheering crowd, which quickly shoved him forward.

"Stop!"

Again the word flew out unthinkingly. I was about to dash into the circle, to put myself between the two of them (utterly stupid, I knew, but I was past caring), when a strong grip clamped onto my shoulders. I twisted my head around to see Felix grinning malevolently down at me. To either side of me Bernard and Gemma were being similarly restrained by Custard Heads 1 and 2.

I tried wrenching myself away from his grasp, but his fingers only dug deeper into my shoulders.

"You three aren't going anywhere, so I suggest you sit back and enjoy the show." His voice was dripping with so much smug self-satisfaction I wanted to smack him right across his goblin face. He lifted his eyes to Trevor, "Give it to 'im, Boggs!"

Clive and Trevor were now circling each other, each warily eyeing the other. Unless someone intervened the outcome was inevitable. Clive may have been a match for Felix, but Trevor was twice his size, with arms nearly as thick around as Clive's torso. There was little chance of him breaking through the circle. The other patrollers were packed shoulder to shoulder, two rows deep, a ring of faces that ranged from intense excitement to mild discomfort. It looked like nearly all of them were present except...right as I thought of his name, I felt a small body wriggle up next to mine.

"Hey, what's going on?" It was Stewart, pushing his way through the crowd to stand next to me. His eyes widened as he watched Trevor charge toward Clive who scrambled out of the way just in time, causing Trevor to nearly barrel several students over.

"Stewart," I whispered.

"Huh?" The small boy's saucer eyes were fixed on the fight.

"Stewart, I need you to do something for me."

He finally turned to look up at me.

"What?"

"Go find someone, a teacher, who can stop this."

"Er...but..."

Stewart glanced at something past me and I turned to see Vivian in the crowd, her arms crossed as she watched the unfolding fight.

"Vivian, please." I called, hoping her rivalry with Felix might induce her to put an end to the fight.

She ignored me, but I saw her press her lips together in a small mocking smirk.

I turned back to Stewart.

" _Please_ , Stewart. Someone's going to get hurt."

Stewart's overbite bit down hard on his lower lip as his brow furrowed.

"Okay... I'll do it. You can count on me, Amelia!"

He slipped back into the crowd and I watched out of the corner of my eye as he scurried across the room. As he reached the door, he turned to give me a thumbs up and tripped over the threshold.

"I'm okay!" he cried as he scrambled to his feet and disappeared out of the door.

I turned back to the center of the circle. Clive was still giving Trevor the run-around. The large boy was beginning to get winded, his breath coming out in rasps that heaved his shoulders, sweat dripping off his nose.

"C'mon, Boggs! That's the best you got?" Felix nodded to two of his lackeys standing just behind him.

"Help him out, lads."

With stupid grins, the two boys dashed into the circle and came at Clive from either side. Both being comparable in size to Trevor, they quickly overpowered him, each twisting one of his arms behind his back. They held his struggling form in place as Trevor advanced.

"It's two black eyes this time, Dove."

"Let go."

I started prying at Felix's sweaty sausage fingers, but his hands were like metal clamps keeping me firmly in place. On either side of me, Bernard and Gemma were also struggling to free themselves.

Trevor's right foot slid back with his fist, his muscles tensing beneath his jacket as Clive glared up at him, his eyes defiant, unflinching. The crowd hushed. I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Just what is going on here?"

I reopened them. The entire circle turned. Professor Xander was striding into the room, followed by Stewart, his head ducked between his shoulders like a guilty puppy.

Immediately the circle broke apart. Felix's lackeys roughly released Clive, who fell onto his hands and knees.

Vivian quickly stepped to block the professor's view.

"I'm sorry, but what do you think you're doing in here, sir? This area is for patrollers only."

Professor Xander stopped short of the circle. He was tall and patchy as usual, his trousers barely reaching his ankles, but elegant and poised nonetheless, as if he were on center stage.

"As I well know, my dear, but I think an emergency situation can override such a rule as that." The professor voice had an even, almost conversational, tone that clashed with the hardness in his eyes.

"Now, I'll repeat my question. What. Is. The. Situation."

I finally yanked myself away from Felix, whose grip had loosened considerably, pulling Bernard and Gemma with me. We hurried over to Clive who was just picking himself off the ground.

"Are you okay?"

"Anything broken?" Gemma chimed in.

"I'm fine," Clive muttered. Bernard offered him a hand.

Trevor broke through the crowd, still puffing like a steam engine. He snatched the metal rod from Gemma's hand and held it aloft.

"These four broke in here and tried stealing from us."

"Hey!" Gemma jumped up, trying to reach the object, but Trevor only lifted it higher, "We didn't steal anything! We found that!"

"Everyone, remain calm." Professor Xander held up his hands in a pacifying gesture, "I'll ask you to please hand over the object in question to me."

Trevor glanced at Vivian, then Felix, seemingly unsure. When they provided him with no immediate feedback he grudgingly did as he was told.

"It belongs to the Patrol." Vivian said, looking at the rod with ravenous eyes.

"Is that so?" The professor said glancing at Vivian over his glasses. He turned to look at Clive, rubbing his neck, and then Trevor, "I think there's only one way to settle this, gentlemen. Ladies. The proper way."

Before he could elaborate, Miss Bijou came clicking into the room on her stilted high heels, clipboard in hand.

"Sir, we're already twenty minutes behind schedule."

"Bother the schedule, Miss Bijou. Clear it." He turned to give us all a mischievous smile, "We're going to have a battle of wits."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**The Story So Far. . .**

 _The discovery of another secret passage within the group's hideout leads to a mysterious object that the Patrol seems desperate to claim. In the midst of a fight between Trevor and Clive, Professor Xander intervenes, declaring a battle of wits the only proper way to settle the matter. . ._

 **Chapter Fifteen**

Gemma put her eye to the door's keyhole and remained hunched a moment, peering out into the lecture hall where the muffled thrum of voices was steadily building.

"There's quite a crowd," she said, turning back to where Clive, Bernard, and I were standing in a loose huddle.

The room we were waiting in functioned as a backstage area, although it could hardly be considered a proper one. It was not much more than a long, narrow closet that Professor Xander and Miss Bijou had since packed with theatre essentials. Taking up the entirety of one wall was a floor-to-ceiling mirror topped with dusty round bulbs that served as the room's only source of light. Heavy racks of costumes were shoved against the other wall: ball gowns, medieval tunics, threadbare overcoats, silk robes, and nearly every other article of clothing one could dream up, sandwiched into a dizzying array of colors and fabrics. There were several partitions folded into one corner which I assumed could be set up to provide makeshift dressing rooms during a performance. Between all of this, boxes overflowing with props ate up most of the floor. My eyes caught the red tip of a wooden sword, a stuffed boar's head wearing a bowler hat, a crude imitation of a famous Greek bust. Scripts and technical notes concerning lighting and sound took up any remaining space, papering the walls and the door, as well as littering the room's one sofa and low table where other signs of sleep-deprived actors lingered: drained teacups, pencils nubs, and cellophane wrappers.

The set-up made my eyes glaze over, as if chaos funneled into such a small area was simply too much for my brain to process. Studying my surroundings, however, was preferable to focusing on the group that stood not very far from us, forming their own, noticeably tighter, huddle. Vivian, Trevor, Felix, and Stewart had each grudgingly agreed to participate in Professor Xander's challenge and were now alternating between whispering and tossing their best evil glares in our direction (to be fair, Stewart's expression conveyed "disgruntled chipmunk" more than anything else).

At first, Vivian had tried to dissuade the Professor from his suggestion, but Xander was resolute, to say nothing of being completely enamored with the idea. He had promptly pocketed the mysterious object that had caused all the fuss and exited the lounge, forcing everyone to chase after him. As he headed in the direction of the lecture theatre, whistling cheerfully despite the mob of furious patrollers dogging his heels, students and teachers joined our throng, curious to know what all of the hubbub was about. Once we reached the hall, he'd exchanged a few heated words with Vivian and Felix, then told the eight of us to remain in the back room while he took care of a few details. If Gemma was to be believed, however, perhaps his real goal had been to give the school time to produce him a decent audience.

"Is this really a good idea?" I murmured, my stomach doing acrobatics for the second time that day. It wasn't really squaring off against the Patrol I was afraid of, rather, the thought of being on stage with a dark mosaic of faces staring up at me, examining me, waiting for me to slip. I had survived it once, true, at the end of last term, but this time was different. Before, I had simply received Rosen's blessing, merely stood passively and looked grateful. Today, I would have to actively think on my feet, something I wasn't so sure I could do under mass scrutiny.

"It's a grand idea!" Gemma said. Her voice dropped to a whisper, "Finally, a chance to stand up to Vivian, like, really stand up to her, and knock her off that hoity-toity, fancy pantsy high horse she's always on! Knock them all off! And burn the barn! Make off with the chickens!"

It did not surprise me one bit that she was trembling and bouncing with barely contained excitement. She was an actress after all. Attentive crowds fueled her.

"Xander's not going to change his mind, " Clive said, before Gemma could continue her extended farm metaphor, "We really have no choice, if we want that rod back, or whatever it is. Besides, I'd say our chances of winning are fair."

He was watching the group of patrollers out of the corner of his eye, just a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. I could tell he was genuinely looking forward to the confrontation.

"What about you, Bernard?" I asked, hoping he, at least, would share in my hesitation.

"Even if we do win, they'll never stop hounding us." he said, thrusting his head toward the group.

"No," Gemma said, "But at least we'll have Professor Xander on our side."

"If Vivian and Trevor want it so bad, I guess it must be important." I had effectively dropped from the conversation, trying to convince myself to go through with the ordeal. Clive was right, of course. Xander was so caught up in his idea there was no way either side could convince him to do anything otherwise.

Just then, the man in question entered with Miss Bijou and her clipboard close behind. Xander was gripping four pencils in each fist, points up.

"Gather round everyone and we'll decide who will be facing who in our competition."

The eight of us drew closer, although we were careful to remain two distinct groups. Xander held out a fist to each group.

"Pick a pencil, please. The color of the eraser will determine who your opponent will be."

We each slipped a pencil from either of his fists. Mine had a green eraser. I looked over at the four patrollers examining their own pencils and my stomach did its equivalent of a triple back flip. Felix was rolling a pencil with a green eraser between his fleshy fingers. He looked over at our group, holding up his pencil with a wicked grin.

"Get a green one, Bernie? Dove?"

I held up my own pencil. He looked disappointed.

"Blue!" Stewart said, holding his pencil aloft, "Who's got blue?"

"Me!" Gemma said.

Stewart gulped audibly as he turned to look up at Gemma with startled, suspicious eyes.

"Y-you?"

Trevor and Bernard both had yellow erasers and were eyeing each other with annoyed scowls. Similarly, Vivian and Clive, each with a red eraser, were having some sort of intense stare down, smirk-off. Really, if I hadn't have been so nervous, I might have cracked up just a little.

"Anyone want to trade?" Stewart said. He had placed himself as far from Gemma as possible. "Felix, please trade with me?"

"No trading." Xander said, holding up an authoritative hand. "These matches are final. Write it down, Miss Bijou. Stewart vs. Gemma. Trevor vs. Bernard. Amelia vs. Felix. And Clive vs. Vivian."

Miss Bijou hurriedly scribbled the names down on her clipboard and then looked up with a curt nod.

"Sir?"

"Excellent," Xander spread his arms, "Let us proceed to the stage. And keep those pencils. You might just need them."

We followed him out of the back room and onto the stage, where eight folding chairs had been arranged in two slanted rows, four on each side. In the middle, under a single spotlight, two podiums had been placed, each equipped with a thin stack of paper and a microphone. Beyond the stage, the lights had been shut off, allowing only a meager gray late noon light to filter in from outside. Under this dim glow, I could see that the first five rows or so were completely filled with students, including nearly all of the patrollers, and a handful of teachers. I wondered if Professor Rosen was somewhere in the audience.

As we took our seats, Miss Bijou handed the professor his own microphone. He stepped forward, into the spotlight, to address the hushed crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your time. I know this is rather short notice, to say nothing of unorthodox, but I assure you, what you are about to witness is very much in the spirit of Dreycott's traditions and history. Eight of your very own classmates have agreed to face each other, head to head, mind to mind, in a game of puzzles, a battle of brains." He held out a sweeping arm to indicate the four patrollers sitting across from us on the left side of the stage.

"Over here we have...?" Xander's voice trailed away, one eyebrow cocked in question at the group.

"Team Rosen." Vivian answered promptly, her prim hands folded in her lap, "In honor of our headmistress, naturally."

Xander turned back to the audience.

"There you have it. Team Rosen. Vivian Chesterham, Felix Rimswald, Trevor Boggs, and Boniface Stewart."

Loud cheering and clapping erupted from the patrollers.

Professor Xander turned to us.

"And on this side we have...?"

We all looked to one another with uncertain frowns. We hadn't even considered a team name.

"Ah," Clive managed.

"Er..." Gemma added.

"Anything but the Notebook Gang," Bernard muttered.

I chewed at a thumbnail, my mind grasping at mist.

"Yes?" Xander prompted.

"Teeeam...nooo...the...errr...puzzle...the puzzle p...aa-aals." Gemma jumped up, as if a wild epiphany had suddenly struck her, shouting, " _The puzzle pals_!"

On cue, Bernard slapped a palm to his face as giggles drifted up from the crowd. Clive mouthed something to me, trying to conceal a half-smile behind the act of rubbing his brow, but before I could ask him to clarify, Gemma was at it again.

"No! Wait! That's not what I meant to say!" she sputtered, "Just call us The P.P. for short!"

She dropped back into her chair, blowing stray strands of hair from her pink-flushed face, as more snickers rose from both the crowd and our four opponents.

"And the, _ahem_ , Puzzle Pals," Professor Xander said, trying to hide his own bemused smile, "Gemma Mudget, Amelia Ruth, Clive Dove, and Bernard Trewinkle."

Scattered, feeble applause sorted itself out from the dying laughter.

"Go, Amelia! You're the best! You go, girl!" I spotted Shelby, sitting in the front row, clapping madly.

"I'm so sorry," Gemma whispered, turning to each of us with large, apologetic eyes, "It just sort of popped out? I didn't mean to embarrass everyone."

"Don't worry, Gemma." Clive said, with a shrug, "A name isn't everything."

"What did you say, Clyde?" Bernard shot at him.

Before Clive could shoot back a retort, Xander continued,

"This afternoon you will witness four challenges, each in the form of a vexing and devilish puzzle of my own choosing. For each puzzle, our two opponents will have fifteen minutes to come up with a solution. Whoever procures the correct solution first will be considered the winner of the round. Three out of four will decide the winning team. In the event of a tie, I will issue a final tie-breaker round." The Professor adjusted his glasses as he glanced from one team to the other, "Understood?"

We each nodded silently.

"Excellent. Let's have Miss Mudget and Mr. Stewart front and center please."

Gemma stood, somewhat subdued now. She still managed a double thumb's up before crossing the stage to stand behind a podium next to Stewart, whose huge eyes were bouncing from the ceiling, to the audience, to Gemma, to Xander, to his teammates in endless circuits.

"Shake hands, please. A spirit of camaraderie is important."

Gemma stuck out her hand and grabbed Stewart's hesitant one, pumping it vigorously. I had never really seen the two interact before. Stewart's fear seemed to confirm why. No doubt he knew of the rumors about Gemma, probably believed in every one. Since the initiation, I had tried giving him the benefit of the doubt whenever I could. The poor boy was so very eager to please, making it so very easy for Vivian to manipulate him. Still, it annoyed me that he put so much stock in such ridiculous rumors. Another reason I wanted to see Gemma win.

"Now, then, let us proceed to the first puzzle," The Professor paused a moment to allow everyone a chance to draw in a breath. "I am going to share with the two of you a certain pattern. This pattern may appear random, but I assure you there is a specific rule behind it. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir." Gemma said. Stewart bobbed his head.

"Then here it is. Listen closely." Professor Xander cleared his throat and proceeded to speak in a slow, distinct voice that allowed each individual syllable to be clearly discerned, "UA. OA. UEA. EEA. UA. IA." He paused, "There is one more string of letters in the pattern and then it repeats, ad infinitum. Can either of you tell me what this last string of letters is? Remember, fifteen minutes."

"Could you repeat the pattern?" Gemma asked, brow furrowing.

"Certainly," Xander repeated the letters as Gemma and Stewart scribbled them down on their paper. Silence descended upon the entire theatre as we waited for one or the other to come up with an answer. I turned to Clive and Bernard.

"Either of you know it?" I whispered.

They both shook their heads, but I could tell they were thinking hard on it. I wasn't sure of the answer myself, but there was something oddly familiar about the pattern. Seven strings of letters altogether. Was that significant? Seven strings that repeated again and again. And the first six strings each ended with the letter "a"...

The fifteen minutes had dwindled to just five when Stewart raised a trembling hand into the air.

"Stewart? Do you have the solution?"

Across the stage, I saw Trevor, Vivian, and Felix glance at one another with surprise.

"Erm...er...is it EUA?" Stewart immediately cringed as if he already knew what the Professor's reply would be.

"I'm sorry, Stewart, but that is incorrect."

Just then, Gemma's hand shot up. Stewart looked over at her, mouth agape, his shoulders sagging.

"Gemma? Do you think you have it?" Xander asked.

"I think so, Professor." Gemma glanced at her paper, then back to Xander, a bit of hesitation marking her features, "Is it...AUA?"

A slow smile spread across Xander's face.

"That... is indeed correct."

"What?" Stewart looked on the verge of tears. He held up his own paper to examine, "But, but how? I mean, I tried everything!"

"All the letters are vowels, see," Gemma explained, "But not just any vowels. They're taken from each day of the week. Sunday. UA. Monday. OA. Tuesday. UEA. And so on. The last day of the week is Saturday, so..."

"AUA." Stewart repeated in a dejected voice. He crumpled up his paper and let it drop to the floor.

"Ladies and gentlemen, round one goes to Miss Mudget and the, ahem, the Puzzle Pals!"

There was applause, perhaps a half-decibel louder than before. A few of the more obnoxious patrollers booed.

Stewart was met with silent glares from Vivian, Felix, and Trevor as he sat down amongst them, head ducked between his bony shoulders. I felt guilty, now, for wanting him to lose so badly.

As Gemma bounded over to our side, we stood to congratulate her. Her beaming expression told me she had successfully extricated herself from the gloom of her prior mishap.

"That was amazing, Gemma." I said, offering her a smile.

"Right on the money." Clive added.

"I was so nervous!" she confessed with a relieved laugh, grabbing both of our hands, "Ugh! I was sure I had it all wrong!"

A pause and we all glanced at Bernard, who still hadn't said anything. He let out a sigh.

"Alright, alright. Stop looking at me like that. I suppose your win makes up for the 'Puzzle Pals'," Bernard sniffed and his eyes darted off to the side, "Well, very nearly, anyway."

Gemma put a hand on her hip.

"At least I proved I can keep up with you three brains."

"Next, let's have Bernard Trewinkle and Trevor Boggs to the podiums, please." Professor Xander said. Bernard sighed again.

"T.B. versus B.T.!" Gemma slapped Bernard on the back, "You can do it, B.T.! Just believe in yourself!"

"Vapid pop psychology slogans always make me feel better, too." Bernard said, before making his way across the stage.

The two boys met half-way and shook, Bernard's small hand completely engulfed by Trevor's bear paw. Formalities out of the way, the two turned to stand behind their podiums and directed their attention to Professor Xander. The professor was standing off to the side, head down, eyes closed, and arms folded as though he were lost deep in thought.

"For our second challenge," he began, position unchanged, "I have a riddle to share with you, one that another professor, a particular connoisseur of fine puzzles, shared with me at my time at Gressenheller. Listen carefully, gentlemen, to the missing pound riddle." Again the Professor cleared his throat, finally lifting his head so that his words were directed to the whole audience,

"Three brothers check into a hotel room. The clerk says the bill is 30 pounds, so the three brothers divide the cost equally amongst them, paying 10 pounds each. As the evening progresses, the clerk comes to realize the bill should only be 25 pounds. To redress the situation, he gives the bellhop 5 pounds to return to the brothers. On the way to the room, the bellhop realizes that there is no way for him to divide the money equally. As the brothers didn't know the total of the revised bill, the bellhop decides to give each brother 1 pound and keep 2 pounds as a tip for himself. Each brother gets 1 pound back, meaning each paid only 9 pounds, bringing the total paid to 27 pounds. The bellhop has 2 pounds. If we add 27 and 2, we get 29. So then, if the brothers originally handed over 30 pounds... what happened to the remaining one pound?"

There was a long pause as Bernard and Trevor absorbed the riddle.

"Think carefully, gentlemen. This is a puzzle with some bite."

As Bernard and Trevor turned to calculating on their paper, Gemma spoke up in a whisper,

"Boy, glad I didn't get that one. Number puzzles are the worst," Gemma shivered, "Numbers are the worst."

"I actually think I've heard of this riddle before," Clive said, "But I can't remember the solution. Something about the way it's worded..."

The fifteen minutes fell to ten, five, and then Professor Xander called out,  
"One minute remaining."

I had never seen Bernard with such a determined look on his face. He had stopped writing several minutes ago and was now staring hard at his paper, brows knit tight, trying, it would seem, to make the final leap from conjecture to solid conclusion. He blinked and something shifted in his expression, a click as the pieces slid into place. Just as he looked up, however, Trevor's hand went into the air.

"Mr. Boggs?"

"The question is meaningless," Trevor said.

"Pardon?" The corner of Xander's mouth was twitching, although I wasn't entirely sure if he was restraining a smile or a frown.

"There is no missing pound. The sums added at the end are all wrong. You would have to start with the money in the hotel register, which is twenty-five, and then add the three pounds the bellhop gave the guests and the two he kept for himself. That equals thirty."

Bernard dropped his pencil, scowling furiously.

"That is correct, Mr. Boggs. You were able to successfully pinpoint the puzzle's misdirection." He turned towards the crowd, "Round two goes to Mr. Boggs and Team Rosen!"

The patrollers in the audience burst out in fierce applause as Trevor strode back over to the left side of the stage, looking immensely pleased with himself.

"I was so close." Bernard said, as he steamed in our direction, "But that lout got to it first."

"I'm still confused." Gemma said, counting on her fingers, "How could there not be a missing pound?"

"Well, think of it this way," I said, "The sum of thirty pounds is broken down to twenty-five and five. The bellhop further divides the five to three and two. Add all of those up and you still have thirty. The misdirection occurs when the riddle says the bellhop gives the three brothers back the three pounds, says that each only had to pay nine pounds, then proceeds to add those numbers with the bellhop's two pounds."

"Which is wrong," Clive added, "An informal fallacy, I believe. Because the two and three were taken from the-"

Gemma held up a hand.

"Okay, you know what? Never mind, you're just making me more confused."

"It's actually very simple," Bernard said, slumping down into his chair, "Not that it matters now."

"It could still go either way." Clive muttered.

As the applause subsided, Xander continued.

"For our third, and penultimate, challenge let's welcome Felix Rimswald and Amelia Ruth to the stage!"

I stood, my legs feeling like gelatinous columns about to collapse. I had been so focused on the puzzles in the first two rounds I nearly forgotten that I would be doing one myself.

"You can do it!" Gemma whispered.

"Focus. Tune everything else out." Clive said.

I slowly walked across the stage, feeling like I was slogging through several meters of thick mud with weights tied around each ankle. Heat was prickling on the back of my neck and I imagined each needle jab was a pair of eyes glaring at me from the shadows below. Searing me. Exposing me.

I met Felix at the podiums, blinking under the spotlight's glare, and stretched out my hand to shake his, wincing slightly in anticipation. Instead of a crushing squeeze, however, his grip was limp and slippery, which was somehow even worse. As if I wasn't even worth the effort to intimidate.

When we turned to face the audience behind the podiums, he nudged me with his elbow.

"Don't be afraid to cry, pigtails." he said, under his breath, "Xander might go easier on you."

Okay, so maybe I did scare him. Just a little. I straightened my back, inhaling a long breath like a draught of cold water and letting it out again.

"For challenge number three, I ask that you direct your attention to my assistant, Miss Bijou."

Everyone, on stage and in the audience, turned to the right of the stage where Miss Bijou was climbing the steps with a large white poster board. Upon it was a rectangle divided into five segments:

"This is what is known as the five room puzzle," Xander said, as Bijou stationed herself next to him and held up the poster. She looked almost as irritated as Bernard. "The objective is simple. You must cross each wall of the diagram with a single, continuous line. Once a wall has been crossed, it cannot be crossed again. Opponents, Miss Bijou will hand you smaller copies of the diagram."

Miss Bijou set down the poster board on a stand and clicked over, handing Felix and I each a sheet of paper with three rows of smaller copies of the diagram printed upon it, giving us a number of chances to try out different strategies.

"Remember, fifteen minutes." Xander said, "Please begin."

I looked down at the first diagram and started to trace a tentative route through the rooms with my eyes. When that proved too difficult, I picked up my pencil and guided the pointed tip through the sixteen walls, pushing it inside and outside the structure like a needle and thread. Seven tries later and I was no closer to the solution. I glanced over at Felix. He was frowning as he moves his pencil about the paper.

Focus.

I turned back to my own paper. What was the problem? The puzzle seemed straightforward enough. There had to be some sort of simple strategy that would allow me to cross each wall. Was it best to start inside the rectangle or outside? Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe what mattered was the line I crossed first. I allowed my eyes to close for a second. All of the tiny squares were giving me a headache. Was I missing something? Unless... I reopened my eyes and stared intently at the rows of rectangles. Could it really be possible? Xander seemed mischievous enough to pull something like that. I quickly tried several more solutions on the remaining diagrams. Each time, I came up short one or two walls that just couldn't be reached given the rules.

"Five minutes remaining." Xander announced.

I bit my lip. I could raise my hand and try out my alternate idea. But if I was wrong, would Felix get the point? Was he close to the solution? I didn't want to risk glancing at him again for fear of being accused of cheating, so I kept my eyes on my paper, tapping my pencil. After a minute or two had passed, I straightened. Yes, I was going to do it. Even if I got the puzzle wrong, Clive still had a shot. If he won his round, Xander would issue a tie-breaker. It was worth the risk.

I raised my hand.

"Miss Ruth? You've found the solution?"

"Excuse me," I said into the microphone. I cleared my throat, trying to rid the timidity from my voice, "But there is no solution."

Felix looked up at me, eyes narrowing.

"No solution? What do you mean there's no solution?"

"It's an impossible puzzle," I said, "Unless certain rules are clarified, the puzzle is unsolvable, no matter where you start or what order you cross the walls."

There was murmuring in the audience, as Felix turned a peculiar shade of purple.

"That is correct, Miss Ruth," Xander was smiling wickedly, "It is an impossible puzzle."

"Hold up!" Felix banged a fist on his podium, "You told us what we had to do and nothing about this unsolvable rubbish. I say it's unfair. Your instructions were misleading."

"Agreed." Vivian chimed from her chair, "You gave him no reason to think the puzzle had no answer."

"Yeah, I demand a rematch."

"Steady now," Professor Xander was stroking his chin, his eyes cast to the side in thought, "Let me discuss this a moment with Miss Bijou. Both of you may have a seat."

As the professor consulted with Miss Bijou to the side of the stage, I walked back over and sat down amongst Clive, Gemma, and Bernard who were all glaring at the patrollers.

"Can you believe it?" Gemma seethed, " _Unfair_. Like he's ever played by the rules before in his sorry little Felix life."

"Looks like he and Vivian finally found something they can agree on." Clive added, rolling his eyes.

Less than five minutes passed before Xander returned to face the audience.

"After brief consideration, Miss Bijou and I have decided that Mr. Rimswald's objection is valid. As we are short on time, we will consider this round a tie. Meaning whoever wins the final round will be declared the winner."

"Unbelievable." Bernard huffed, "You should've won, Amelia."

"Oh, don't get your socks in a bundle." Gemma said, "You don't know the Professor like I do. Declaring this round a tie is the surest way of making the final round the most dramatic it can be."

"Because that's all that matters." Bernard said, "A good show."

"Mr. Dove and Miss Chesterham to the podiums, please."

"Good luck," I said as Clive stood.

"Solve it with flair!" Gemma cried.

"Don't lose." This was Bernard.

Center stage, Vivian and Clive shook hands, eyeing each other with the wariness of two feral cats meeting at a territorial border. Out of the four matches the erasers had decided, Vivian and Clive had had the most confrontations with each other prior to the competition. Of course, there was only one I had seen first-hand and that had been during my first night at Dreycott. Their exchange, and other pertinent facts, had since lead me to believe that there had been many hostile encounters between the two of them in the past. It wasn't hard to deduce why. Vivian was second only to Rosen in authority and Clive was one of the few people I'd seen who could successfully undermine that position. It almost seemed as though Xander _had_ rigged the entire game to ensure the final match was as dramatic as possible. Neither Clive nor Vivian would go down without a scratching, scraping, tooth and nail fight, that much was certain.

"The final challenge is a rather special one," Xander said, "It is what as known as a 'situation puzzle'. Are either of you familiar with the term?"

Vivian and Clive both shook their heads.

"In a situation puzzle, I will present to you a situation, a small and cryptic narrative, that you must try to unravel. To do so you may ask me any question regarding the situation. However, be aware that I can only answer 'yes', 'no', or 'irrelevant.' Do you both understand?"

"Yes," the two chimed.

"Excellent. First, the situation." As Xander fixed his sharp gaze out over the audience, he began the puzzle, "An inept first-time killer enters a man's flat in the middle of the night. When he spots the man in bed, he quickly closes his eyes, dashes forward, and stabs him through the heart before fleeing the scene. The next morning the man awakens, and careful of where he steps, calls the police. A while later, he leaves for work, his tie crooked." Xander paused as his eyes turned to rest upon Vivian and Clive, "Tell me, what really happened here?"

There was silence as the two soaked in the baffling story.

"As is proper, ladies first. Miss Chesterham you may ask the first question."

"Did the murderer use a knife to stab the man?" Vivian said, after another moment of consideration.

"Yes. A knife was used." Xander confirmed. He turned to Clive.

"Was the man bleeding when he awoke?" Clive asked.

"No."

Vivian frowned and Clive furrowed his brow.

Gemma nudged me.

"D'you know the answer?" she whispered.

"Mmm. Not yet."

Of course the most confusing aspect of the situation was how a man who was stabbed through the heart could survive, let alone wake up and go to work. How could you get stabbed and not bleed? And then there was the crooked tie. It seemed an odd detail to include. I guessed it might be the key to the entire situation.

"So, to be certain, the man _isn't_ dead? We're not dealing with his ghost or anything?" Vivian asked.

"No, the man is not dead." Xander answered.

"Could the killer see well in the flat?" Clive asked.

"No."

"And he closed his eyes when he stabbed the man," I murmured to Gemma and Bernard.

"It's all about misdirection, just like the missing pound riddle." Bernard said, "The narrative makes you think one thing when in actuality the truth is very different..."

"Did the murderer pull the knife out of the man?" Vivian asked.

"Irrelevant." Xander replied. He had begun pacing back and forth. Clive, meanwhile, was scribbling something down on his sheet of paper. There was a glint in his eye.

"Did the man notice his tie was crooked?" he asked.

"No."

"So, Clive's sensed it, too." I muttered. I suppose if I'd woken up and realized someone had broken into my flat, my tie would be on the bottom of my list of concerns. But the story was too concise to include minor details such as that without good reason. Every sentence was hiding a hint to guide the listener to the solution. I ran through the questions again. If the man was not really dead, than that meant he could not have really been stabbed, right? But the killer must have stabbed something...

"Was the man in any way injured?" Vivian asked, clacking her nails on the podium. I could tell she was becoming frustrated.

"No."

"Did the killer notice any strange sounds when he stabbed the man?"

Xander's eyebrows flew up.

"Why, yes. Yes, he did."

Vivian glanced at Clive. I could practically see the gears in her head begin to whir faster. Strange sound...strange sound...Clive had caught on to something, at last. I only hoped that Vivian wouldn't be able to infer his train of though through his questions.

"Did a murder actually take place?" she asked at last.

Xander smirked.

"No."

"Was there something different about the man's flat when he woke up?" Clive was still writing, his hand trembling feverishly.

"Yes."

"Was the man wearing something that would protect his heart?" Vivian asked, glancing again at Clive.

"No."

Clive dropped his pencil onto the podium's surface, triumph flashing in his eyes, his sudden smile. A smile of my own began to spread. Yes, he'd gotten it in time.

"I believe I know the solution." he said to Xander.

"Very well, please continue."

"A murder never occurred in the flat, because the man was never stabbed at all. The killer, who let us remember is inept, stabbed a mirror, either across or near the sleeping man that reflected back his image. At any rate, it was placed at an angle so that the killer could see the man but not his own reflection. By the time he was close enough to see his own reflection his eyes were already closed. He stabbed the mirror, shattering glass all over the floor. When the man awoke in the morning he noticed the broken mirror, and maybe the remaining knife, and called the police. With no mirror in his flat, he could not tell his tie was crooked."

The hall was utterly quiet. Vivian folded her arms, her green eyes boring into Clive.

"Please," she sneered, "That is the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard. Who is possibly idiot enough to stab a mirror?"

"Irrelevant." Clive said, turning to her, "As long as the solution accounts for the details in the situation described, it's considered sensible."

"That is indeed the solution I was hoping for." Xander grinned, "In a puzzle like this, lateral thinking is a must. One needs not only a good grasp on logic, but an imagination. Creativity is the key."

He turned to the audience.

"With that, ladies and gentlemen, our battle of wits reaches its end. Round four goes to Mr. Dove. The Puzzle Pals win, 2 to 1!"

I could only assume that at some point during the competition the audience had finally become invested, because immediately after the Professor announced us as the winners, everyone, save the patrollers, who looked stunned, broke out in cheers and applause. Gemma, Bernard, and I wasted no time surrounding Clive and giving him the customary handshakes, back slaps, and hugs. Actually, all three of these were undertaken solely by Gemma, who never wasted a moment fretting about invading someone's personal space.

"You and that big beautiful brain of yours." she said, once she had put Clive through the wringer.

"You were brilliant." I added.

"The look on Vivian's face was priceless." Even Bernard was able to muster up a sincere, if indirect compliment.

"Well, don't pin it all on me." Clive said, looking somewhat embarrassed, "It was a team effort."

"The whole thing was a set-up. You're clearly biased."

"That last puzzle was ridiculous!"

"It belongs to us!"

All four of us turned. Team Rosen had surrounded Xander and were now offering up a steady barrage of complaints. The professor held up his hands.

"My decision is final. Both teams had an equal chance at winning. If you want to be poor sports, so be it, but don't blame your loss on me."

Breaking out of the angry circle with a swift heel turn, Professor Xander strode over to our side of the stage. He produced the rod from his pocket and handed it to Gemma.

"This belongs to the four of you." he said, meeting each of our eyes, "And I don't want to catch any of you sneaking around where you shouldn't, again."

The gravity in his tone was lightened by a sudden wink.

"Thank you, Professor." Gemma said, "We promise we'll be, er, well, more careful in future."

"Ha, ha, glad to hear it, my dear. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to attend to that I've neglected long enough," He ran a hand through his fluffy, gray hair as his eyes became distant, "So much to do, so little time. We've got a show premiering in less than three weeks...sets to finish...dress rehearsals..." He started, his eyes refocusing upon us, "You three will be coming to watch Gemma, yes?"

"Of course." Clive said.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. Now, I'd best be off."

The Professor swiftly disappeared into the crowd ascending the stage in a hum of excitement that seemed almost foreign within the confines of the bleak lecture hall. Casting dark looks about them, Vivian, Felix, Trevor, and Stewart melted into the cluster of patrollers who were coming up the other side of the stage.

"That was beyond wicked!"

Shelby, along with several other members of chess club and a few of Gemma's fellow actors were approaching us.

"We should have these more often." Madge added gleefully, "Professor Xander always knows how to make things interesting, that's for sure."

"He really gave that lot the what for, didn't he?" Henry crowed.

"It wasn't just Xander, silly." Harper countered, "It was Clive, and Gemma, and Amelia! Oh, and you too, you tried your best."

This last remark was directed at Bernard, who looked about as flattered as the apple chosen to fit inside the pig's mouth. Harper turned to Clive, "How in the world did you come up with the answer to that last one, Clive? I never would've thought of that!"

"That pattern puzzle had me stumped." Madge broke in before Clive could reply, "But you managed to solve it so fast, Gemma!"

Gemma's initial look of surprise at the group had since melted into a delighted grin.

"It was really nothing." she stammered.

"I say Amelia had the toughest one. And she still got it!" Shelby added, "We all thought you should have won that round, Amelia."

"Step aside, please. Everyone, clear a path," The crowd parted to make way for the determined strides of a tall girl with dark bobbed hair and a small upturned nose. She was followed by a compact, muscular girl with hair that poofed out in a dense sandy cloud about her shoulders and a camera around her neck. I recognized the mismatched duo as one Cathy Cromwell and her photographer, Kate.

"This is for the Daily Dreycott." Cathy said, scribbling furiously into a notepad.

"Show me those canines." Kate snapped a picture of the four of us. The flash left me blinking as splotches of color danced in front of my eyes. She raised an eyebrow at Bernard, who of course, hadn't even considered smiling.

"Your mum die today or something?"

" _Ahahaha_ , everyone loves your sense of humor, Kate." Cathy shoved the shorter girl off to the side, before promptly turning her attention back to her notebook.

"A battle of wits," she gushed, "This is exactly the sort of splash the D.D. needs for tomorrow's front page. It's high time someone shook things up around here. And in the best possible way, might I add. The scrappy underdog, clever, crafty, cool, triumphing over the school's quote unquote protectors and their entire corrupt, blue-blooded bureaucracy. It practically writes itself."

She glanced up at Clive, "Would an interview be possible?"

"I didn't know we had a school paper," Bernard said, eyeing the girl towering over him suspiciously.

"Our readership is currently in the single digits," Kate replied, pulling a folded newspaper out of her camera bag, "Cath's trying to change that."

She handed Bernard the paper and the four of us crowded together to examine it.

"'Breaking news, Mrs. Giles Caught Bald'," Bernard read aloud, "'Thought to Own City's Most Extensive Wig Collection'!? What the-"

"Ooh, lemme see."

Gemma grabbed the newspaper out of his hands. She whistled as she read through the front page article.

"That's some quality dirt."

"As I was saying," Cathy pressed, "An interview?"

"Oh, right," Clive said, "Do you want to do it one at a time or-"

"Just you is all." She took a step closer to him, "You know, one on one?"

Clive frowned.

"Oh. Er, right, but-"

"Perfect. This way please."

Cathy brushed past me, clamping a hand down on Clive's forearm before steering him through the throng towards one of the chairs on stage.

"I-I'll be right back," he called over his shoulder.

Kate made a sound between a sigh and a groan.

"Oy, and there she goes again. Better keep up, then, Katie girl." She gave me a nod, "'Scuse me."

I watched her tramp after the pair, unsure whether to be amused or bothered by Cathy's single-minded focus.

"Oh, look, it's the rumor about the boy who found broken glass in his sandwich!"

Gemma and Bernard were still engrossed in the newspaper.

"Just when I thought I couldn't possibly hate Dreycott any more." Bernard was saying.

"Oh, hush. This is what people _like_ to read."

"This is what _you_ like to read."

"Amelia?"

The timid voice somehow managed to reach my ears through the noisy crowd.

I spun around. Stewart was peeking out from behind the door to the back room. His overbite and darting eyes made him look like a spooked rabbit.

"Stewart?"

I made my way through the crowd, over to the door.

"What is it?"

"C-could you come in here for a moment?"

Somewhere in my head a little alarm was ringing, but I ignored it and cautiously followed him into the room. The door slammed shut behind me. I turned, and as expected, saw Vivian and Trevor blocking the exit. Felix was lounging on the sofa in the corner, looking completely disinterested as he crumpled up papers lying about and tossed them into a nearby waste basket.

"We need to talk," Vivian said, her arms crossed over her chest. In the small room, her flowery perfume was even more suffocating than usual.

"What about?" My insides were springs, coiling tighter and tighter. Beside me, Stewart's eyes drifted to the floor.

"I think you know." Vivian uncrossed her arms and sighed. She picked a piece of lint from her sleeve and examined it briefly with a tight grimace before flicking it away. "Ruth, I'll be honest with you. At first, I thought Professor Rosen made a mistake choosing you."

"You mean didn't agree with the Professor about something?" Felix asked from the sofa in a mockingly gentle tone, "Are you sure you're feeling well, your Majesty?"

" _You_ keep your mouth shut." Vivian said, flashing him a murderous look. She turned back to me, regaining her composure.

"I see now that you're not what I thought. You're smart. And that's something in short supply around here."

Trevor nodded, then frowned as his eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.

"Truth is, we need you. We need to be able to trust you to be on our side."

Vivian stepped closer to me and her voice dropped.

"There's someone operating in the shadows here at Dreycott. Someone who jeopardizes our mission and the continued functioning of this school. A teacher, perhaps. Or a student." She let that linger in the air for a second, "At any rate, we need your help rooting them out."

My mouth had gone completely dry. This was it. If ever there was a time to speak out against Vivian, it was now. But I hated how easily she painted herself and the other patrollers as the ones in the right, the ones trying to help the school. Doing so made the idea of arguing against her seem all the more impossible.

"You did swear the oath, Amelia." Stewart said softly beside me, "You're one of us."

"I made..." I took a shaky breath, trying to keep my voice steady, "I made an oath to protect this school and...and its students. We all did. What I saw today was not helping anyone. It was hurting them."

"You're referring to our treatment of your friends, I'm sure. But let's not forget that you allowed three students to enter an out-of-bounds area after filching an item that remains the property of this school. Not to mention, Dove was the one who provoked Trevor, not the other way around."

"He interfered." Trevor agreed, "I was only defending myself."

"Let me ask you something, Amelia," Vivian continued, "Have you ever stepped back and asked yourself what Dove really wants? Just how well do you think you know him?"

"You've yet to tell me everything you know about this school." I said, Trevor's comments igniting a hot spark within me, "Why keep what you know about the statue a secret?"

Vivian blinked, for once speechless.

Feeling a little bolder, I continued, "Why should I trust you over him?"

Stewart made a small noise in the back of his throat. His expression, a mixture of awe and horror, told me I'd gone too far.

"I keep silent on Professor Rosen's orders." Vivian said, her voice noticeably louder, "For you, and every other student's protection. If we seem too severe to you, too unyielding, it's only because we're thinking of the greater good. But Dove? He only keeps secrets to protect himself. Think about that."

Trevor opened the door and Vivian started out of the room, followed by Stewart, who kept glancing back at me. Felix finally sat up, tossing one last crumpled paper into the basket before heading for the door. He stopped suddenly in the doorway to give me a grin leeched of anything good-natured.

"October 19th." he said, "Ask him about it, sometime, why don't you?" Felix shrugged like he couldn't care less what I did, "You might see a different side to your infallible Dove. That is, if he's not too spineless to talk about it."

With a snigger, he slumped out the door.

The breath I had been holding in released itself automatically. Finally alone. Yet, somehow, still unable to move. I stood just inside the room, heart beating, chest heaving, thoughts colliding into one another.

I did not believe Vivian. At least not about Clive. Why should I? She'd given me no reason to trust her over him and plenty of reasons not too. Still, there was something that was digging into me, like a bur trapped in my shoe, rubbing my heel raw. Was it doubt? Vivian had said someone was operating in the shadows at Dreycott. That, I could believe. Her implications had been vague concerning who exactly was involved, but I had detected them nonetheless. And they disturbed me, despite everything I knew and believed to the contrary. I hated it. How she had the power to shake what I thought, _knew_ , to be true.

No.

She only thought she did. I wasn't going to let her words eat at me any longer.

That thought pulsing through my head, I forced myself to peer out of the room. The crowds had dispersed, including Cathy and Kate. Clive, Gemma, and Bernard were standing talking to the few remaining students. I slipped out and their attention immediately shifted to me.

"Amelia, there you are," Gemma said, "We wondered where you went off to."

"Are you alright?" Clive asked.

I felt a pang at his note of concern and wondered exactly what sort of expression I had been wearing when I came out.

"I'm fine." I lied. The weight of it sunk into my chest.

"Well, let's get over to the dining hall and see if we haven't missed supper." Gemma said, "Sit with us for once, Amelia. It is your birthday after all."

She was smiling, but beside her Clive's own expression had darkened, his eyes dropping to his shoes. He looked almost guilty.

"Speaking of which, I should apologize for earlier." he said all of a sudden, the odd expression vanishing, "I had forgotten what day it was."

"Nonsense. I never told you." I said, offering him a weak smile, "But if you'd still like to make it up to me, you can tell me yours. "

"September 3rd."

As we left the darkened lecture hall, that's the date I kept in the forefront of my mind. Not the one Felix had handed to me with his crooked smile, but the one given freely, honestly. The one neither of us was afraid to speak out loud.

 _A Note Concerning Puzzles:_

\- The Missing pound (or dollar) riddle has variants that date back to the 18th-century, although the version used in this chapter is thought to have originated in the 1930's.

\- The five room puzzle is a well-known impossible puzzle. Similar famous unsolvable puzzles include the Seven Bridges of Königsberg and the Three Cups Problem.

\- Situation puzzles (also known as "lateral thinking puzzles") can be considered a more open-ended form of Twenty Questions and the basic rules are much as Professor Xander describes. Puzzles of this type tend to be far more ambiguous than the one included in this chapter, opening the door for a variety of possible solutions. A characteristic almost all share, however, is a decidedly morbid sense of humor.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**The Story So Far. . .**

 _Amelia, Clive, Bernard, and Gemma win the battle of wits against the Patrol, enabling them to keep the strange object they had earlier found. Afterwards, Amelia is confronted by Vivian, who questions her loyalty to the group, and Felix, who hints at some secret concerning Clive . . ._

 **Chapter Sixteen**

Spring term would have ended on an uneventful note if not for one final, stormy evening in April. This seemed to be the hallmark of our time at Dreycott. Weeks could pass without a whisper of the Statue or any other sort of incident, when suddenly a single day could bring all sorts of trouble tumbling down on our heads at once, like a dirty load of laundry tossed down the chute. "When it rains, it pours" was the old saying. Trite as it was, it was founded in truth. And in the case of this particular evening, it was not only figuratively true, but literal, as well.

Three weeks until the play, Professor Xander had said. Three weeks until the storm broke on that wild evening, but in the interim the storm was inside the school, in the form of an eager, restless, gossiping student body.

After the impromptu battle of wits, Xander became quite the school celebrity. The Daily Dreycott ran an article about him on the front page dripping with dubious intrigue about his past and readership jumped to over a hundred in a single day, or so Kate announced to whoever would listen. Following this, debates at the patrol table grew quite hot, with Vivian leading the anti-Xander charge against the few who dared defend him. Good or bad, the clamor all boiled down to a tenfold increase of interest in the upcoming play. It seemed certain that the whole school would turn out opening night, which only further energized the already hectic preparations.

I could say this with certainty mainly because of Gemma, who was increasingly absent from our group as the premiere drew nearer and nearer. When she was with us, she was exhausted, but almost delirious with excitement about the show's progress and its mounting tidal wave of hype. When the actual day of the premiere arrived, I was almost afraid of what manner of manic euphoria I'd find her in, but, as it turned out, I did not catch a single glimpse of her. She was not at breakfast, nor lunch, and still had not appeared when Clive, Bernard, and I decided to take our studying out of doors in the afternoon.

The air had softened to a pleasant balminess by this time, but what could have been a fair spring day was marred by an unpredictable drizzle that didn't know if it wanted to linger or leave. On and off, on and off, the rain had vacillated all morning. Finally, after lunch, it looked as if it might finally clear up. Of course, it didn't really matter to me. I was tired of being confined to Dreycott's drafty corridors and endless staircases. For such a vast, sprawling school there was something almost claustrophobic about it.

The lawn was a different story. The delicate green hues of spring had softened the browns and grays like blended watercolors. Thick ivy swallowed stones, moss and grass blanketed the ground in velvety swaths, bushes and trees swelled with leaves, buds blossomed with indigo irises, raspberry pansies, and, my favorite, enormous peach peonies just like the ones mum grew back home.

As we studied and breathed in the wet flowers, there were few sounds other than faint birdsong and the occasional rustle of a turned page or a restless leaf against the steady trickle of water (and, of course, the general hubbub that was London, but I was so used to its constant noise now that it no longer stood out). We were sitting on the stone edge of the fountain's basin. Clive had insisted on this particular spot. He would glance occasionally up at the downcast face of Hyacinth and I knew homework was not the only thing on his mind.

After an hour or so of this quiet, Bernard finally set down the thick textbook he had been pouring over, stood, and stretched.

"You know, I've actually gotten some work done this time," he said, his voice a shade lighter than normal, "This play's turned out to be a real boon for me."

I couldn't really argue with him. Studying with Gemma was what my grandfather would've call a Sisyphean task. If she wasn't talking about what she was reading or writing (or something related to neither), she was fidgeting, polishing her glasses, cracking her knuckles, humming, and completing a dozen other distractions. I had built up somewhat of a tolerance, but Bernard had the tendency to turn purple and mutter choice words under his breath in the midst of study time with Gemma.

I glanced up at him.

"You are coming tonight, aren't you, Bernard?"

His self-satisfied expression faded.

"Coming where?"

"The play?" Clive asked, looking up from the reams of notes he had been scribbling.

"Oh. Well, if you two are going, I suppose I'll tag along. Mudget would never let me hear the end of it if she found out otherwise." Bernard paused, his bushy eyebrows scrunched, "How much will I have to shell out for this, anyway?"

"Not a penny," I replied, "Students attend for free. Gemma's already given me our tickets." I shut my own textbook and started to tuck it away in my bag, "She told me her family's going to be there. She wants us to sit by them."

"Oh? Why?" Clive asked, shuffling his notes.

I shrugged.

"You know Gemma. She wants us to meet them, I guess."

"Of course she does." Bernard sat back down heavily beside me. His eyes flitted to something to the far left and suddenly narrowed.

"Don't look now," he said.

We looked now. Amos Crimp was tramping down the gravel path straight towards us with a shovel slung over one shoulder.

"Hold your ground," Clive said, "Let's see what he has to say."

Ah, so that's why he'd wanted to sit by the fountain. Apparently, Clive had not yet given up on the idea of milking information from the curmudgeonly gardener.

We waited in silence as he drew nearer. When he reached the fountain, he swung the head of his shovel down into the soft loam with a wet _shliiick!_ and rested his elbow against the handle.

"Jus' can't stay away, can we?" he said, peering at us from under the brim of his sun hat.

If I hadn't known better, I would have guessed he was some fairy, an imp maybe, that haunted the wilder parts of the school property. Dark mud was splattered and smeared up past his wellingtons, coating his overalls, his gloves, even his wooly gray-white beard, which looked as if it hadn't seen a trim all winter. His eyebrows were equally shaggy, overhanging eyes that glittered mischievously. Sprigs of lavender stuck out of his stitched pocket.

"Hello, Mr. Crimp." I said, offering him a polite smile.

He stretched forward his sinewy neck, shoulders hunched, squinting closely at us.

"Ehhh, where's th' puffball?"

The three of us looked to one another in confusion.

"Th' purp'ly one?" Amos pressed.

"Oh, you're talking about Gemma," Clive finally said, "She's busy today with the school play."

"And I 'spose yeh thought I'd be busy wi' th' school play, too? Thought I wouldn't notice yeh trespassin'?"

"Trespassing?" Bernard couldn't contain himself a moment longer, "That's preposterous. This fountain doesn't belong to you. It's school property."

"Maybeh so. But I look afteh Hyacinth. 'Ave since before yeh were a fat little tot bein' bounced on yer poppy's knee. And I won't stand for any 'oodlums defacin' 'er or playin' loud music or skateboardin' round 'er."

"Well, as you can see, we're not doing any of those things," Clive replied crisply, "In fact, by sitting here we're keeping the birds away, which frees you up to finish other tasks, correct?"

Amos squinted until his eyes were merely slits.

"Think ye're a cleveh one, do yeh? Think you can give ol' Amos some cheek jus' cause he's old 'n feeble 'n got dirt under 'is fingernails, eh?"

"Of course not. I merely meant to say you have no basis for accusing us. We've done nothing to this fountain. We're only interested in its history," Clive raised a hand to his chin, "Surely you wouldn't say no to three studious pupils interested in learning a bit of Dreycott's history? I'm sure you must know alot."

Amos snickered, tugging at his long beard.

"Oh-ho! Compliments, now?" He turned to Bernard, "What about you? Go' a compliment for ol' Amos, too?"

Clive and I both gave Bernard a look.

"What? _Ergh_!" His entire face turned red, furrowing in revolted concentration as he looked Amos up and down. "I suppose..." he finally said, "You're not _quite_ as filthy as you could be."

Amos slapped his knee as his snicker turned into a full-blown chortle.

"No' very good at it, are yeh? _A-hee-hee-hee_!"

When Amos had had his laugh, his swung his shovel back over his shoulders, his gloved hands clasping either end of the long wooden handle.

"Yeh promise to keep these 'oodlums in line, Amelia? Keep 'em out o' trouble?"  
"I promise, Mr. Crimp." I said, shooting a small smirk at both Clive and Bernard, the latter of whom appeared ready to be outraged.

"Then I'll be yer hist'ry teacher fer today. If hist'ry _is_ what yeh want?"

"Exactly what we want." Clive affirmed.

"No speakin' out o' turn in class, Clove."

"It's Clive."

"Jus' wot I sez. Clove Dive."

"Look, can you just-"

I jabbed an elbow into Clive's ribs. He winced.

"Sorry. Please continue... _Professor_ Crimp."

" _Doctor_ Crimp. As I was sayin' 'fore I was so rudely interrupted, Hyacinth here wasn't always around."  
"Really?" Bernard couldn't help coating the word with sarcasm.

"I know it's 'ard to think back that far, kidling, bu' try." Mr. Crimp said, completely ignoring Bernard's tone, "'Fore Hyacinth and th' fountain, there was jus' th' well."

"Well?" Clive said.

"Well wot?" Amos demanded. He laughed again, "The fountain was built on top o' th' well, see, draws its water from the well."

"What useful information," Bernard droned.

I nudged him with my foot. Finally, the groundsman was willingly speaking with us and both boys were rather botching it.

"I'm not finished."

Mr. Crimp whipped his shovel around and stuck it in the dirt once more, the dull head sinking completely.

"Deepest well 'round."

"How deep?" Clive pressed.

Amos' eyes glinted in the shadows under his hat brim.

"'Ow deep, 'e wants teh know. How deep it goes. Bottomless, they say."

"Impossible. Obviously." Bernard was quick to reply.

"And 'ow would yeh know? Only one way teh know fer sure."

His chuckle was cold.

My mind was humming. Amos's talk of a well had sparked something in my memory. What was it...? Then it came to me. Lily's story she had told during the initiation. The original Patrol had defeated Araneae by washing her away with the well under the school.

Clive had apparently picked up on the connection, too, judging from his next question.

"Mr. Crimp do you know anything about Araneae?"

Mr. Crimp strained his neck.

"Eh?"

"Araneae. Supposedly it, or she, was some kind of experiment, a monster, who ran amok here at Dreycott hundreds of years ago."

"Monsteh," Mr. Crimp repeated in an unreadable tone.

"She hid in a labyrinth under the school." I said, trying to recall the details of the story, "But the Patrol flushed her out using the well. Does any of this sound familiar to you?"

Amos shook his head.

"I told yeh the well runs deep. Drop a coin, can't see it once it 'its bottom, even if yeh were starin' straight at it." Amos snapped his fingers, "'Notheh fellow comes along, 'as no idea what's at th' bottom. Good? Bad? All's 'e can do is guess."

"Only one way to know for sure," Clive repeated quietly.

I felt something light and cold slide down the collar of my shirt. I looked up. Raindrops were starting to cascade from the charcoal cloud bank above us.

Amos looked up, too.

"Welp," He smacked his lips as he pulled his shovel out of the ground, "Class dismissed."

By the time Clive, Bernard, and I met at the bottom of the stairs to the girls' dormitories at a quarter to seven, the afternoon's spring shower had turned into a torrential downpour.

As we headed to the lecture hall, the rain, a million restless fingers, drummed insistently against glass and stone. The nearer we drew to our destination, however, the softer the sound became. I quickly discovered why. A long line of people snaked out of the double doors leading into the hall. Beyond, I could clearly hear every actor's bliss, a house packed to the seams with an animated audience. A brief spurt of relief rushed through me. I wouldn't be on stage this time, thank goodness.

"I am not waiting in line," Bernard grumbled.

We pulled him to the back of the queue, anyway.

Ten minutes later, we reached the doors. The usher collected our tickets and handed each of us a glossy program.

"Enjoy the show, kiddos!"

I glanced back at him as we entered the hall. He was the creepily friendly blond man who worked in the kitchen.

"See Gemma's family anywhere?"

My attention snapped back to the crowded hall. Clive and Bernard had stopped just beyond the doors and were looking around a bit dazedly. If nothing else, the place had ample seating, yet even so I could not spot a single empty row, let alone pick out Gemma's family in the shifting mass of faces. There were people of all sizes, shapes, and ages, many dressed in elegant evening wear. Voices mingled and bounced across the hall, snippets of conversations tangling in my ears like twine.

I turned towards the stage, which in contrast to the rest of the hall, was lost in shadow. I could just barely make out the dim outline of a ramshackle village. The set sprawled to the left and the right of the stage, as well, to include fields and a small wood, respectively. To the far right was Dreycott's student orchestra. The steady crescendo that rose as the musicians warmed their instruments fed into the noisy crowds, adding a shot of anticipation. I had to hand it to Professor Xander, even with the limited space available, he went all out.

"We might have to be groundlings for this performance," Clive quipped.

"I am _not_ standing the whole time." Bernard shot back.

Clive pulled out his pocket watch.

"Less than five minutes until show time."

"Let's go up to the back and see if we can't find them from there." I suggested.

It was sweltering in the hall and the back of my head was already throbbing with the constant noise. More people were pouring in behind us.

"Good idea."

Before we could head in that direction, however, I glimpsed a flurry of colorful, ragged skirts barreling our way.

"Gemma?"

"There you three are!"

She was decked out in full peasant garb, her skirts hitched up around her ankles and her long hair straggling to escape from a patterned kerchief tied under her chin. Her cheeks were bright pink from her dash or perhaps it was only stage makeup.

"Shouldn't you be backstage?"

Gemma held up a finger as she doubled over, trying to regain her breath.

"Yes. _Shh_. Don't. Tell. Have seats. Saved for you three." She straightened, "C'mon. I want you all to meet my family."

"Lead the way." Clive said.

We followed Gemma up the far left aisle, before cutting through to the middle. More then a few people cast her an odd glance, but she paid them no mind as her head swiveled this way and that through the crowd. Finally, her eyes landed on a group sitting a few rows down from where we stood.

"Oh! There they are. C'mon!"

She was off skipping down the steps, almost tripping over her skirts, until she stopped by a row containing a large man, a slender woman, and three smaller children. There was just enough space at the end of the row for three extra people to fit comfortably.

"Gemma?"

All five pairs of eyes fell on the four of us.

Gemma's father stood. He took up most of the row and was just as I remembered him from the photograph in Gemma's room. Cheery orange jacket and purple tie, generous belly, broad shoulders, and a round, red, glistening face, beaming brightly. Happy to see his daughter, if not slightly confused.

"Gemma? We didn't expect to see you until after the show!" Mr. Mudget threw his arms around his daughter in such an enormous hug that Clive, Bernard, and I had to scramble a few steps upward to avoid being knocked over.

Mrs. Mudget had stood as well and was trying to see past her husband's large frame. She fit the name "Mudget" about as well as a tiger fit a basket. If anything, she looked even more elegant than the photograph had lead me to believe. The glow of the lights touched upon high cheekbones and dark glossy hair, which was swept to the side in a impeccably arranged updo. Her scoop-necked top and tailored skirt, both in shades of plum, exuded an understated sophistication which was only reinforced by the manner in which she held herself.

"Gemma, it's good to see you, darling, but I don't suppose you plan to watch yourself from the audience? What's this all about?"

"Mu-uum, my friends, remember?" Gemma said, wriggling out of her father's hold, "There's no way they could have found you alone in this mess."

Mrs. Mudget turned to study the three of us. I shifted uncomfortably on the steps. Her gaze was a shade too intense for my liking.

"These are your friends?"

"Yeah," Gemma stepped back and pointed to each of us in turn, "This is Amelia, Clive, and Trewinkle."

"We've talked about addressing peers by their surname, Gemma," Mrs. Mudget said in an even voice, raising a steep eyebrow at her daughter.

Before Gemma could respond, Mr. Mudget was grabbing each of our hands, flinging them up and down as if he was conducting an orchestra.

"Hallo! Nice to finally meet you! Gemma's told us so much about you! Hallo! Of course you're welcome to sit by us, don't be shy! A pleasure, really a pleasure!"

I didn't get a word in edge wise, but Mr. Mudget's grip was gentle and firm, his smile as sincere as his daughter's.

"Well, I've got to run," Gemma said, when her father was finished, "Show starts in, erm, now. See you all after!"

She pushed past us and hurried down the center aisle, disappearing into the gloom that surrounded the stage.

"That's Gemma for you," Mrs. Mudget said. I detected a hint of exasperation in her otherwise cool voice. "But I'm sure by now you must be fully acquainted with her, ah, exuberant personality." She held out a manicured hand and we each shook it in turn, "I'm Renée and this is my husband, Ernest."

"Hallo," Mr. Mudget said again, his eyes disappearing behind upturned crinkles, "Jolly pleased to meet all of you. Pleased as punch Gemma's been able to make such good friends this year."

"Ernest, dear, why don't we file out so Gemma's friends can reach their seats?"

"That's alright, Mrs. Mudget," Clive said quickly, "We can go around."

"Nonsense! It's no trouble, son." Ernest leant past his wife, to the three children who had been staring silently at us the entire time, "Up, up, up, kids. Out into the aisle for a moment to let in Gemma's friends."

We backed down the aisle steps, allowing Ernest, Renée, and Gemma's siblings to exit the row.

"Children," Renée said, as we moved to sit down at the far end of the bench, "These are Gemma's three friends. They're going to be sitting with us during the performance. Introduce yourselves and best behavior."

I sat at the end of the row, followed by Clive, then Bernard, who did not even try to hide his irritation as Gemma's brothers slid next to him.

The oldest boy, sitting between his two siblings, looked over at us and smiled. He appeared to be maybe ten or eleven. Out of all the children, he looked the most like Gemma, with her same thick, dark hair and glasses, although his were square rather than round.

"I'm Sherman. Nice to meet you," he said. He turned to his two siblings, "This is Davey and Jewel."

Davey was the one sitting next to Bernard. Unlike his three siblings, he had freckles, sandy hair, and a fiendish glint in his eyes that reminded me of Amos Crimp. There were band-aids on his knee and chin and his crooked smile was missing several teeth.

Clinging to Sherman's arm, Jewel looked like a little doll. Her hair poofed out around rosy cheeks that contrasted with her pinched frown. She wouldn't meet any of our gazes.

The three of us each introduced ourselves to the children.

"So, which one of you is Gemma's boyfriend?" Sherman asked, his voice just a bit too innocuous.

Clive and Bernard glanced at each other.

"He is," Clive said finally, nudging Bernard.

Bernard drove a merciless elbow into Clive's side, but the latter only smirked.

"I could beat you up," Davey said, eyeing Bernard up and down, "Sherman could really beat you up. You're way smaller than him. Ha! You're almost as small as me!"

Bernard folded his arms and hunched his shoulders, glaring straight ahead.

"This is going to be a long night."

A low rumble shook the darkened windows on either side of the hall. I watched Jewel slide off her seat and toddle over to her mother, who picked her up, placing the small girl on her lap.

As the rumble dissipated, the lights over us dimmed. A hush slowly settled over the hall as the last remaining playgoers found seats. I settled back in my own seat, glad that our time socializing with Gemma's family was on pause.

It wasn't that I didn't like her family. It was simply overwhelming to meet them all at once. Mr. Mudget seemed very kind, but also exhausting to be around (a bit like Gemma). Mrs. Mudget was harder to read. She wasn't quite the snob Gemma made her out to be. At least, she didn't seem that way now as she stroked her youngest daughter's hair and whispered something in Jewel's ear that made her giggle softly.

Seeing the Mudgets interact also made me miss my own family more keenly than I had in some time, especially my grandad. I wished, as I had often before, that he could come and visit the school. Not only to see me and meet my friends, but also so he could lift the growing weight on my shoulders by glimpsing the school's many problems for himself. It was a bit of a selfish wish, I knew, but I was tired of walking the thin edge around the subject whenever I wrote letters to him. He'd have answers, I was sure he would, about all of it: the Statue, the Patrol, Professor Rosen, Gemma's predicament, maybe even Clive. I wanted his keen perspective so desperately. I hadn't realized how much I relied on it until I came to Dreycott. How much I missed the security of an adult I wholly trusted. The ones at Dreycott were either absent, suspicious, or too fearful to be of any real help, except Professor Xander or maybe Ms. Giltwing. Perhaps this was the reason meeting the Mudgets stirred so much longing inside me?

The stage lights bloomed to life as the orchestra began playing a boisterous overture. Never mind it all now, I thought, as a flurry of actors burst from the houses in the village. It could all wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I was going to try to relax and enjoy myself for once.

As it turned out, _Fuenteovejuna_ , the name of the play, proved the perfect remedy. It had a little bit of everything: humor, suspense, action, romance, and political intrigue. It was easy, as well, to see the care and effort Professor Xander and Miss Bijou had put into the production. The costumes were vibrant, suiting their characters perfectly, from the poorest peasant in rags to the Commander, the villain of the play, bedecked in full military regalia. The sets, too, were splendidly detailed, but didn't detract from the actors on stage, each of whom seemed born to play the roles they had been given. Gemma's part was small, but she was brilliant as a feisty peasant who joined in the town's rebellion against their cruel lord.

By the time the second act ended and the lights came on in the hall for the intermission, I was quite anxious to see how it would all end. I had been so enraptured, that it was only now that I realized how fierce the storm outside had grown. Flashes of lightning forked the sky at shorter and shorter intervals, while a hollow wind could be heard even as the crowd regained its collective voice.

"Hmph. Well, not as pedestrian as I thought it would be." Bernard said, as if he were a seasoned critic of the theatre.

"If I'm correct, this is Xander's fifth play," Clive said thoughtfully, "I've been to two prior, but I'd say this is his best yet. It's no wonder there's so many people."

"He _is_ Antony Xander, after all." I said. I thought back to the first conversation I had participated in at the patrol table, "He must be very good for the school. Its reputation, I mean."

"Yes, he must." Clive agreed.

"I think he's full of himself," Bernard said, "That battle of wits was nothing more than a fat ego trip for him. There's something... unsavory about him, too."

"You sound like Vivian," I said, but my attention had been caught by something, or rather someone, who had just stood a few rows below our own. Under the dim lights, I could just make out the rather nondescript face and emerald suit of a man talking to an older woman in silver. Professor Rosen.

"I've seen that man before." I said.

Clive turned to me.

"What?"

"That man." I subtly indicated who I was referring to, "When I went in for my interview with the Professor. He came out of the office while I was waiting. Do you know who he is?"

"I've never seen him before." Clive admitted, his eyes narrowing as he continued to study the man.

"Nor I," Bernard added.

"I wonder..."

"Are you trying to spy on that lady?"

The three of us whipped around. Sherman was leaning forward in his seat, looking at us intently.

"Erm, it's nothing." I said sheepishly.

"It's okay. Davey likes spying on people, too. He's really good at it. Isn't that right, Davey?"

Davey nodded vigorously.

"I'm the best. The very best!"

"You want to know what they're saying? He'll find out for you."

Clive frowned,

"I don't think your parents-"

"They won't mind. He'll be back before they even notice."

"Will he even understand what he hears?" Bernard asked, "He can't be more than three."

"Er, he's six actually."

"I'M SIX!" Davey echoed, "But I'll be seven in four months! And then I'll be nine, then ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fifteen, sixt-"

"Okay, Davey," Sherman cut in, "See those two people down there?" Sherman pointed to where Professor Rosen and the man where still talking.

Davey squinted.

"The old lady and the green guy?"

"Yeah. Go see what they're saying, okay?"

Davey dropped to the floor.

"I'M A COCKROACH!" He whisper-screamed, scrabbling away on all fours. He slipped out into the aisle and was lost among the mingling throngs.

"I don't know about this," I murmured. It would be all to easy for him to get lost, or stepped on, or caught by Professor Rosen. Not that she would do anything unpleasant to him, but what if he revealed what he was up to? Davey did seem a bit unpredictable.

"He'll be fine," Clive reassured.

He glanced past Bernard to Jewel, who had returned to her seat chewing on the fold of her program, and gave her a small, friendly wave. Jewel returned the gesture with a murderous glare. Bernard chuckled as Clive leaned back in his seat.

"Oh, I like her."

Ten minutes passed and Davey had still not returned. I shot a quick glance at Mr. and Mrs. Mudget. They were standing in the aisle at the other end of the row chatting with a few other couples. I turned to check on Professor Rosen and the man in the green suit, but received a small jolt of surprise instead. The Professor had retaken her seat. The man, on the other hand, had disappeared.

"Do you think he got lost?" I said, fresh anxiety stirring within me.

Clive was looking less confident than he had before.

"Hmm. Maybe we'd better look for him," He pulled his pocket watch from his jacket, "The intermission must be nearly over."

We both stood and stepped out into the aisle.

"I'm coming too," Sherman said, pushing past Bernard.

"Bernard, stay here, we'll be right back." Clive said.

"And keep an eye on Jewel," Sherman added.

"What? _Ugh_. Fine." he growled.

We started down the aisle steps toward Professor Rosen's row. I kept my eyes low to the ground, searching for any telltale sign of a young boy crawling about.

"Davey?" I said in a loud whisper, " _Davey_?"

The overhead lights began to dim.

"It's starting." Clive said, "We-"

A brilliant flash, a bone-rattling quake of thunder, and the hall was suddenly plunged in utter darkness. A general murmur of surprise rippled across the room as lightning continued to crackle outside the rain-pelted windows. I felt people shifting passed me as they tried to find their seats in the dark.

"Clive?" I instinctively reached out my arms and knocked someone in the jaw.

"Oof!"

"Clive, is that you?"

"Yes, it's me."

"Sorry."

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Shh! Listen."

I froze. A hush had fallen across the entire room. All was still, save for the rain and the wind.

No. Wait.

I strained my ears. Far from the hall there came a deep, distant crunch. Not thunder. More like the sound of something incredibly heavy making contact with the ground.

 _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh._

 _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh._

 _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh._

There was a rhythmic consistency to the sound. Footsteps.

 _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh._

 _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh._

 _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh._

They were getting louder, closer, until their monstrous echoes filled my ears and the hall seemed to shudder and tremble with the weight of them.

 _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh._

 _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh._

 _Crrruuu-_

The footsteps stopped. Right outside the doors. As the echoes died, all I could hear now was the entire hall holding its breath in suspended animation. Waiting.

 _Creeeeeeegggeerakerhahh_.

A cacophony even more terrible than the first had erupted just outside the hall. A deep grinding, grating that set my teeth on edge and my hands flying to my ears. Jagged rock crashing and scraping against rock, guttural and laborious, too painful to bear. Solid stone come to life, that's what it sounded like, moving and twisting on its own, heaving and scratching against the closed doors.

Goose bumps crawled up my skin as cold dread shot through every vein in my body. No, it couldn't be. It was too early. It was all wrong.

Another terrible, crackling crunch was added to the sound of shifting stone. This one, however, sounded like wood buckling and splintering. Screams broke out around the hall. As they died a voice drifted up, dry, raspy, as if the speaker's throat was full of gravel, but soft, too. A girl's voice.

" _The second awakening draws near. Six shall gaze into the eyes of stone and will fall before the weight of fear. And so it shall be, summer by summer, until the gray house collapses, until the roses are trampled underfoot, until the injustices committed against the ones who have been wronged are known. Until that time, a curse, a curse upon these stones!"_

As the voice rose to a piercing crescendo, a blinding white light flashed across the room, fomenting gasps and cries from every corner.

By the time I opened my eyes, breath caught in my throat, heart thudding, ears numb, all of the lights, stage and auditorium, were on. Everyone stood blinking, clutching one another, all except Clive who was flying down the steps towards a large pile of wooden wreckage near the hall's exit. I gasped and darted after him. It was the doors. The ones we had passed through only several hours before. They had been violently smashed in, scattering wooden debris all over the polished floor.

As I drew closer, I realized we were too late. A swarm of patrollers was already surrounding the wreckage like well-trained police officers at the scene of a crime.

"Stay back." Garret stepped in front of Clive before he could reach what was left of the doors, holding up enormous hands. "Return to your seat, Dove. You too, Ruth. Junior patrollers aren't permitted to assist in situations like this."

"I s-saw it! It was terrible!"

Past Garret, Ursula and Eric were helping the usher with the blonde quiff to his feet. He was shaking, but looked otherwise unharmed.

"Calm down, sir."

"It was beautiful-but horrifying, like a bear, but in a dress!"

"Please clear the area, sir."

The usher stumbled away from the doors and was instantly set upon by Clive, who lead him away from the patrollers by the arm.

"What did you see?"

"Whoa, easy there, squirt. Watch the vest. It's name-brand."

"Did you see a statue? You said it was wearing a dress?"

"What is this? Kill the innocent bystander by questioning him to death? I have been traumatized. I need a glass of ice water." The man let loose a feeble whimper, "Anyone?"

"Clive," I spoke at last, putting a hand on his shoulder, "Let him be for now."

Clive seemed to notice me for the first time. He laid a hand on top of mine.

"Amelia, are you alright?"

"Yes, but I lost track of Sherman."

Clive turned back to the usher.

"I'm sorry for pressing you like that, sir. Would you like us to help you to a seat?"

The man nodded miserably.

As we guided the usher to a nearby bench, Professor Xander, wearing a crisp tuxedo, climbed the steps to the stage, where, I finally noticed, nearly all of the cast had spilled out. As one of his actor's handed him a microphone, I could see that the Professor's face was drained of all color. He looked like the victim of a famished spider.

"Ladies and gentlemen," His voice was bereft of any of its usual warmth, "I ask that you please find your seats and _remain seated_ for the time being. Thank you." He quickly disappeared into the backroom as the room erupted into a thousand baffled conversations. The actors on stage poured in after Xander. Professor Rosen suddenly stepped past me and continued towards the wreckage, followed by several more high-ranking patrollers.

"I think we should do as he says." I said, "And try to find those boys."

"Right."

Clive and I threaded through the anxious crowd, heading for the second-to-last aisle. We'd gotten halfway up when a voice cried out from behind us.

"Hey! I found him!"

I jumped. Sherman and Davey were climbing the stairs two at a time up towards us.

"Clive, Amelia."

From the opposite direction came Bernard with Jewel clinging to his hand.

"She won't let go." he said, his breath emerging in heavy spurts, "Just what the h-" He checked himself just in time, glancing at the small girl, "What was that all about?"

"Let's go sit back down." Clive murmured.

The six of us quickly and quietly made our way back to our row where Mr. and Mrs. Mudget were waiting, looking pale and tense.

"Here they are, Renée ." Mr. Mudget said when he caught sight of us. A look of relief passed over Mrs. Mudget's face as she slipped out of the row and picked up Jewel who had finally let go of Bernard with outstretched arms.

"Where did you two boys get off to?" she asked, guiding Sherman and Davey back to their seats. Neither of the boys replied and their mother didn't seem too intent on pursuing an answer. Mr. Mudget turned to the three of us, dabbing at his glistening forehead with a handkerchief.

"If that was someone's idea of a practical joke, they sure missed the point."

"Yes," Clive said distractedly as we took our seats.

"Well," Bernard said, "I think that was the last thing any of us expected. What was all that nonsense the Statue was spouting? I couldn't make heads or tales of it."

"You're sure that it was the Statue?"

"Clive, please. I heard the same ruckus the first time I saw it."

"What she said...it sounded..." I hesitated, realizing how silly the word I wanted to say was, "It sounded like a prophecy."

"It's a clue, is what it is." Clive said, his eyes practically sparking, "A large one. If we can understand what was said, I think we'll have a better idea of whatever motivation may be behind this living statue."

"It's strange," Bernard said, "I mean, before this the Statue shows up three times to three isolated persons. Now, we have an appearance, of sorts, in front of a huge group of people? Why?"

"It's-it's like the Statue is getting bolder."

My heart rate was finally starting to slow, but the flood of questions was only starting. Around the hall I could see everyone else was just as confused, looking to one another and talking in low voices, no doubt wondering what on earth they had just witnessed.

"Ahem."

Sherman and Davey waited for us to give them our full attention.

"Davey was able to do it," Sherman said. He frowned slightly, "It was, ah, sort of loud, so he only caught bits and pieces."

"That was WEIRD!" Davey said, bouncing up and down in his seat, "I thought my ears were going to pop open!"

"Davey, tell them what you saw."

"They talked about the weather," Davey said, "When I grow up I promise never to talk about boring stuff like that. I'll talk about dinosaurs and ice cream and robots who eat peoples' brains!"

The anticipation tingling through me instantly died.

"But the part at the end,"

"Oh. That was boring, too. He gave her a letter. Then he just walked away!"

"But you said she looked funny?" Sherman pressed.

"Yeah. Sorta mad, like what mum looks like when we dump our blocks all over the floor and dad steps on one in the middle of the night. And he tripped over Snouter and shouted for five minutes! HA HA! Remember Sherman?"

"She looked angry?" Clive interrupted.

"Yeah. I dunno." Davey rubbed his nose, "Sorta scared, too. Her eyes got all big and her mouth was like this." Davey made a perfect "O" with his mouth, his eyes bulging.

"Did she open the letter?" I asked.

"Er...she sat down, so I dunno."

"Pfft. Dead end." Bernard said, crossing his arms, "We really had no reason to be suspicious of him in the first place. Maybe he's just some annoying parent who's always bothering her about his son not getting the special treatment he deserves. Or a creditor. Rosen _is_ in a lot of financial hot water. For all we know, he's probably her husband. Or her son."

"Well, I suppose it's possible. It's hard to tell his age. But about the letter? That seems a bit strange," I said, somewhat annoyed.

"Any particular reason you felt he was suspicious, Amelia?" Clive asked, "When you first saw him, I mean."

I thought for a moment.

"It's hard to explain. Just his manner when he walked out of Professor Rosen's office. You would think he owned the place or something."

"Can we get back to what just happened?" Bernard said, "Sorry, Amelia, but I really think we're scratching at the wrong door with his man."

Before we could discuss the matter any further, Professor Xander returned to the stage. The hall quieted.

"Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the school I would like to apologize for the incident that only just occurred and many of you, perhaps all of you, are no doubt wondering about." Xander pushed his glasses into place, "This incident was nothing more than a juvenile prank intended to disrupt's tonight performance. One that, unfortunately, got a bit out of hand. I am relieved to say that no one has been hurt and that the culprits responsible are being investigated. The matter has been taken up by our Heads of Boarding and the Headmistress, Professor Rosen, herself. If you have any questions, please direct them to the individuals I have just listed."

"A prank," Bernard muttered darkly, "That's just what Rosen said to me after I was nearly murdered by puppets."

"The final act of the play will begin as soon as this debris can be cleared. I sincerely hope you are able to enjoy the rest of your evening and thank you for your continued patience and cooperation."

Xander disappeared once more into the backroom. I kept an eye on Rosen's row, but by the time the lights finally dimmed for Act III she still had not reappeared.

The rest of the play continued without a hitch and once the entire cast mounted the stage, it seemed that the audience had mostly forgotten the earlier incident. Applause and cheers rang throughout the room as each row of actors stepped forward to bow and curtsy.

Afterwards, we followed Gemma's family down towards the stage to help them locate their daughter. She found us instead, waving madly as she broke through a group of several actors and their families.

"Well! That was quite a night! What with that, er, prank and all!"

I could tell she was dying to discuss the incident with the three of us, but didn't want to say anything in front of her family.

"Gemma, why don't you change out of your costume first?" Mrs. Mudget asked.

"There's plenty of time for that later, mum." Gemma replied impatiently. She caught sight of her three sibling and squeezed them into a hug. "And what have you three monkeys been up to? What did you think of the show?"

"I thought it was boring," Sherman said, "Until the end, when they were torturing everyone. Actually, the intermission was probably the most exciting part."

Mrs. Mudget frowned, her expression darkening.

"Yes, well, we can discuss _that_ later."

"I think you quite stole it, Gemmy." Mr. Mudget said, wrapping Gemma (and her siblings) in another enormous hug, "Brava!"

"Da-aad," came Gemma's muffled voice, "My part wasn't even that big."

"He's right." I said, "You were really good up there, Gemma."

"You definitely have a knack for it." Clive added.

"I thought it was rather inappropriate for the children, but I could tell you practiced hard. Well done, dear." Mrs. Mudget said, squeezing Gemma's shoulder, though she seemed a bit distracted.

"Congratulations, Gemma, you did very well tonight." Xander came sweeping over, "After that performance, you definitely have a shot at the lead in next year's play."

Gemma beamed.

"Thank you, Professor."

Xander turned to Mr. and Mrs. Mudget, holding out a hand for both to shake.

"And you must be Gemma's parents? I'm sure you're very proud. She is a gifted young actress."

"I honestly don't know where she gets it from," Mrs. Mudget said, bending over to smooth Jewel's hair, "Certainly not her mother's side of the family.

"Say," Mr. Mudget said, "You're really _the_ Antony Xander, then?"

Professor Xander chuckled.

"Correct, my good man."

"I remember my aunt taking me to see you in _The Taming of the Shrew_ when I was only fourteen. You were a riot!"

As Gemma's father continued to chat with Professor Xander, Gemma pushed the three of us off to the side.

"Alright," she began in a low voice, "Are you three just as freaked out as I am? What was that all about? What did it mean? I mean, that was the Statue speaking, wasn't it? Did anyone see her, er, it, whatever? And I still can't believe those doors! Completely destroyed!"

"It's alot to take in," Clive said, "It seems fairly obvious, though, that whoever's responsible for the Statue's first three appearance, is also responsible for tonight's little interlude. _Why_ the Statue would appear tonight, that's another matter."

"Do you think our theory was wrong, then?" I asked, "About when the Statue will appear?"

"No. In fact, it's almost like tonight was the prologue for next term. Like the Statue was announcing what would happen. A-prophecy, of sorts, like you said, Amelia."

"'Six shall gaze into the eyes of stone and will fall before the weight of fear _.'"_ Bernard said, "That's what it said, right? Well, the Statue shows whoever sees it their fears. So, six people are going to see the Statue next term?

"'A curse on these stones'," Gemma said quietly, "That's the part that creeped me out the most. Does that mean the fountain's cursed?"

"We should go through the whole thing word by word." Clive said. He held up his notebook, "I've already written it down, so we can examine it on paper when we get the chance."

"But why say anything at all?" This was what was currently bothering me, "Was the message directed to a person in particular? Or was it just intended to scare everyone?"

The four of us stood silent for a moment, each thinking.

"If you'll excuse me."

Professor Xander had just turned away from Gemma's parents, his eyes fixed on something across the room. My gaze followed his own. Professor Rosen was heading swiftly out into the corridor. Xander started after her.

"Look," I indicated the two professors.

"C'mon, let's follow them." Gemma said. Before any of us could say anything more, she was dashing the length of the room after Xander, who had just crossed the threshold.

"Gemma, where are you going?" Mrs. Mudget called.

"Be right back, mum!" Gemma said. She beckoned insistently at us and, after a shared glance, we followed her.

Once we reached the empty corridor, I saw that Xander's long-legged stride had already taken him to the first intersection.

"Abigail, wait," he called, rounding the left corner.

As the four of us reached the intersection, Gemma peered around the corner herself.

"They've both stopped." she whispered, flattening herself against the wall. We did likewise, listening to Xander's voice drift back our way.

"How long?" he said, his voice soft, but fierce, "How long am I going to have lie for you?"

"I can't imagine what you mean," Rosen's own voice was cold.

"Abigail, enough is enough. This can't go on. First, individual students, now this. Don't you think it's high time you involved the police?"

"I believe I've already informed you of the cause of tonight's incident. A student prank. Nothing more."

"Abigail-"

"Professor Xander, I assure you I have everything under control."

"But surely the Board would agree-"

"The Board doesn't know," Rosen said, her voice rising slightly. "The Board doesn't know," she repeated in a softer tone.

"So you've managed to keep them in the dark, too, eh? Not after tonight, I'm afraid,"

There was a long sigh.

"I know you think your Patrol can handle this, but what makes you so cerain a student is behind it all? Unless...there's something you're not telling me?"

The pause that followed seemed to drag minutes behind it.

"Professor Xander," Rosen finally said, "I appreciate your concern. But you should know that not only is my Patrol working to keep Dreycott safe, I have also hired a professional to look into the matter. He is certain this is nothing more than a student with a personal vendetta against the school. It is only a matter of time before this individual is caught."

"You've hired a private investigator, then?"

"You could say that. Now, I'm afraid I must be going."

"Abigail..."

"Goodnight, Professor Xander."

The rich click of Professor Rosen's heels gradually faded. Slowly, we crept back down the corridor towards the lecture hall. We had almost reached the door when we heard from behind us,

"Children?"

We turned and I silently breathed a sigh of relief. Xander had only just rounded the corner. He walked over to us, a smile replacing his solemn expression.

"Calling it a night?"

"Very nearly." Gemma said, "I, er, just have to say goodbye to my parents."

"What do you think about what happened tonight, hm?" Xander asked.

"It was, ah, very... unexpected." Clive said. He cringed at his quickly cobbled answer.

"Indeed. But I wouldn't worry too much about it. I've been informed that the one responsible will be found shortly." Xander did not sound at all convinced.

He sighed again, whipping off his glasses to polish them on his sleeve. Without them, he looked much older, his eyes bleary and heavily lined.

"I suppose I must look like a chief suspect in your minds. The timing, my experience with the stage, and let's face it, its fairly evident I don't see eye to eye with Rosen on many topics."

None of us said anything. I hadn't expected the conversation to take this turn. I had never thought of Xander as being a suspect, but he had a point. He could have pulled off tonight's stunt relatively easily. Staging the Statue's other appearances would have been more difficult, but if anyone had the proper resources and know-how for the job, he did.

"Oh, you don't have to say it out loud." Xander continued, replacing his glasses, "For what it's worth, I can assure you I had no part in the matter. But I do commend you for your suspicion. One should never be too trusting, too certain, even of one's friends...one's self... of life. A certain rascally skeptic once asked, 'What is truth?' I think the more pertinent question is 'What is trust?' That courage to leap in the dark, believing everything will turn out? Or maybe just disappointment in disguise, hmm? Like sleep-walking straight into an abyss."

"Trust isn't always blind." Clive said, quietly. Uncertainly.

"No? But don't we often blind ourselves when we choose to trust?" Xander chuckled, "I apologize. I suppose that's for the old to muse, not the young to worry over." He bent his head, "Good night, children."

"Good night, sir."

We watched him slip past us back into the lecture hall. As soon as he was out of earshot, Bernard scoffed.

"Typical. Divert suspicion from yourself by admitting you appear suspicious."

"You think its possible Xander is the one behind everything?" I asked. The idea was plausible, of course, but I wasn't ready to jump to any conclusions.

"He's at the top of my list, yeah. Like he said, he has the expertise, the motivation. I mean he's a famous actor, used to the finest playhouses in the city, and here he's stuck with a tiny stage and a smaller budget. He's angry with Rosen for being so stingy and now he's taking it out on her in the most flamboyant, nonsensical way he can think of."

As Bernard spoke, I watched Gemma's expression morph from concern to outrage.

"The Professor would never do that!" she snapped, "You don't know him at all. He would never do that. He cares about Dreycott. Why do you think he pours so much into his plays? You saw the crowds tonight."

"Seems more like an egomaniac to me." Bernard huffed, "Who only _cares_ about his reputation."

Gemma was glaring at Bernard, her fists balled at her sides.

"You're wrong."

"Let's step back a moment." Clive said, raising his hands, "Obviously we can't completely rule out Xander, Gemma. He seems like a good teacher, but he's also right that we should be careful who we trust. Including him."

"We don't have all the facts yet," I added.

"You mean like you did with Mr. Green Man?" Bernard retorted, though his voice had lost its fire.

"It's frustrating." Clive said, "But tonight's occurrence can only help us prepare for when the Statue shows up. May 14th is only about a month away."

"Fall before the weight of fear," I whispered. I wasn't entirely sure what all the words meant, but this part of the Statue's monologue filled me with a terrible dread.

"Don't worry about that right now," Clive said, "I think I've finally come up with a foolproof plan."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe we would be able to uncover whatever this Statue truly was before anyone else got hurt. But as we headed back into the hall, I couldn't help but wonder if we weren't playing right into a pair of cold and lifeless hands.

 **End of Part Two**


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_**Part Three**_

 **The Story So Far. . .**

 _During the premiere of Gemma's play, the Sentient Statue makes an unexpected appearance, breaking down the doors and uttering a cryptic prophecy. Afterwards, the foursome witness a brief, heated exchange between Professor Rosen and Professor Xander. With suspicions running high, the group begins preparations for their plan to confront the Statue next term. . ._

 **Chapter Seventeen**

On a long, narrow shelf in my grandfather's study was a collection of memorabilia he'd gathered over the years. They were small anchors, finely frosted with dust, that kept him from drifting too far from important periods in his life. A sepia-toned photo of an elfin, freckled woman with a familiar smile who had died before I was born. An ivory bishop from the infamous match with his rival, Branson Ford. A clay sculpture my dad had crafted in primary school that seemed to depict some sort of shapeless rock golem. A battered philosophy tome written and signed by a dear colleague.

One of my favorite treasures, however, had always been the London snow globe, a souvenir my grandad had purchased at the station right before departing for Luxenbelle. An odd acquisition, but perhaps the boy deep inside of him who had been London born and raised couldn't leave without taking one last piece of the city with him.

When I was little, my granddad would set me on his lap, gently turn the snow globe upside down, and place it in my hands.

"That's London, Amelia. That's where your grandmother, and your father, and I all grew up. One of the largest cities in the world, can you imagine? Someday we'll visit it together."

I would smile as I watched the tiny flakes and sparkling bits swirl around the pinnacle of Big Ben, only to slowly drift down to settle beneath the wheels of a double-decker bus. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I formed a vague impression that it snowed every day in London, even while the sun shone.

One day, when my grandfather was out of the house, I grew bored and sneaked into his study. Seeing the globe perched tantalizingly up on its shelf, I climbed his desk and retrieved it on tip-toe. As I shook it to watch the buildings and traffic nearly disappear within a glittering flurry, the heavy thing slipped from my small hands and dropped to the floor, cracking the glass orb. Instead of settling to the bottom, I watched the flakes seep out on a quick current and soak the rug. A mistake. But an irreversible one.

After the events of the play, I felt I was in the same predicament the snow globe had been in all those year ago. Shaken, a thousand feelings spinning and reeling about inside me, while I pushed through the days, hoping they would settle in time for May 14th. All the while, I knew a subtle, sharp dread that I would crack, that whatever hands were holding me up would suddenly let go, and all of those emotions, all of those fears, would come gushing out.

It did not help that by the time the term ended, Clive had still not shared his plan for confronting the Statue. If he had, than I might have had something concrete and rational to sink my brain into over the Easter holiday. Instead, all I could do was replay the Statue's shocking appearance over and over, picking through its words and finding nothing but forebodings that made little sense. These forebodings only fed into the trepidation of what was to come, of somehow going up against something that could smash through doors, whisper with enough power to make an entire crowd tremble, and conjure any fears, no matter how secret. Before, there had been a part of me that did not quite believe it all, but now...now...

I was able to keep my apprehension mostly hidden from my parents. They knew me to be a quiet, pensive person and so naturally assumed I was just being a bit more quiet, a bit more pensive, than usual, with perhaps an added dash of normal school stress. My granddad, however, was not in the least bit fooled and one night he nearly found me out.

It was after a half-hearted game of chess, when I had slipped out to the front porch to stew. Twilight was a good time for this. Sunsets, I thought, were overrated. It was only after the sun had slumped behind the distant hills that the evening truly became alluring.

Everything was bathed translucent blue. The sky was still soft as soap suds near the horizon but colder, deeper, the higher one gazed. Our street was quiet, home to mostly retired couples, widows, and small families like my own. The houses across the way were black against the dusk, with only a glow here or there seeping from out a window to match the handful of flickering stars. The odd dog barked. The last bird sang. I sat in a frayed wicker chair with a musty quilt and tried to look and not think. Look and not think. Look and not think.

Really, what good was thinking about it anymore? Unlike all of the other people at the play, I did not have the comfort of believing what I had witnessed was some sort of juvenile prank gone out of control. I did not have the comfort of any sort of rational explanation for the Statue, no matter how I wished for one. I didn't have answers for any of the mysteries at Dreycott. And every week it seemed another sprang up. The whole school was a labyrinth with no exit, only endless circuits of passages that looped right back into each other. Like Xander's devilish five room puzzle, there seemed to be no plausible solution.

What was the point of it all? Why did I even concern myself? I hated Dreycott, good riddance to it. What had it ever brought me but constant fret?

And then I pictured Clive, Gemma, and Bernard. Three feathers that I had clipped myself, barring any permanent flight from Dreycott. Bernard had already faced the Statue once before, only to have almost no one believe his story or even care. _Snip_. Gemma, too, had become entangled in strange happenings, subject to rumors and lies, alone and confused. _Snip_. Clive, meanwhile, had outright asked for my help. And I had agreed, despite my reservations, because he spoke of justice, and truth, and doing the right thing. Convicting my cowardice, only to see that same passion in him give way to rage, guilt, more rumors. Don't trust. October 19th. Too late.

 _Snip_.

For better or worse, I'd gotten myself invested in each of their lives. They were my friends and I'd never forgive myself for abandoning them now.

Still, what match were we for something like the Sentient Statue? What did we really know about it? What if we were getting ourselves into something so big, so deep that we were swallowed before we even had a chance to realize our predicament, like an ant brushings its feelers up against the tip of an elephant's trunk, unaware of the hulking mass the appendage was attached to?

I was scared. Scared not just because the Statue in itself was frightening, but because I didn't know. How much to be scared, if what we were going to try to do was really the right course of action, if I should trust Clive. If he could trust me, if any of them could trust me to be there and stand with them when the time came.

The twilight blurred. I squeezed my eyes shut as they began to burn. No. I rubbed them with the edge of my quilt until they were raw. Idiot. Don't cry. You're above that. Analyze, detach, don't give in to self-pity.

"Amelia?"

I started.

Granddad had stepped out onto the porch without me even noticing. He was wearing his striped pajamas and bathrobe, holding two steaming mismatched mugs, one in each hand.

"Made you some tea," He handed me a mug with a faded purple cat painted on the side as he settled down into a chair beside my own.

"Thanks," I wrapped my hands around the mug, trying to absorb the warmth. April still had its chill, especially after the sun had gone.

"That was an interesting game," my granddad said, after a long sip from his own mug. He paused, tapping his scrubby chin, "Hmph, although I don't usually decimate your forces within the first ten minutes."

I didn't answer, sipping at my tea, instead. Peppermint. My personal favorite.

"Too busy to get much practice in these days, eh? Well, I understand. Chess is an old man's hobby, I suppose."

"It is not," I countered stubbornly, "And I do practice. I go to chess club two times a week and I've already read all the strategy books in the library...most of them, anyway."

"Ah," My granddad could not hide a small smile, "So if your skills have only improved while you've been away, I can only assume that there must be some other reason for your quick defeat tonight. I couldn't help but notice you seemed awfully distracted."

I took another sip, letting the hot liquid slowly roll over my tongue and down my throat, glad of the excuse it gave me to think before replying. Granddad was through beating round the bush now. He would not be satisfied until I had come up with some sort of answer.

"It's just... just school, that's all."

"Oh? Missing your friends, perhaps?" Granddad scratched his short beard, his eyes drifting towards the ceiling,"Or maybe it's a boy you're thinking about? You _are_ around that age...oh, dear, is it time for this conversation already? Well, good thing I have a chess analogy to help explain. You see, Amelia, boys and girls are like-"

I looked up, blushing.

"Granddad! No. I mean, I do miss my friends. But... there's things I don't miss. Things I'm not looking forward to returning to."

"Hmm, I see. But you can't help but think about those things?" he paused, "Are you quite content there, Amelia?"

I gently sloshed the remaining tea around my mug. Another question I didn't know how to answer without raising other, more difficult, ones. So I asked my own.

"Did you ever think there was a mystery at Dreycott, granddad, back when you were there?"

"A mystery, you say?" My granddad's eyes twinkled above his spectacles, "Certainly. But then again, one can find mysteries almost anywhere, if one searches hard enough and thinks to ask the right questions." His gaze turned upwards, searching the darkening sky, "Look up at the stars, Amelia. It's like looking into the eyes of time itself. An eternity in a glimpse. Hercules! Scorpius! The Great Bear! The ancient storytellers of the cosmos!"

I pursed my lips, not quite sure what he was trying to say.

"No one believes that anymore."

"No? Now it's hydrogen and pressure and mass. We can break stars down to their individual molecules and build them back up again, in a manner of speaking. Impressive, but is it the end? Case closed? I should say not! If that was all, then I very much doubt we'd get such a strange, luminous feeling from looking at them."

"But doesn't that have to do more with humans and less with stars?"

"It has to do with both. You see, mysteries, whether they be stars or missing socks, are humanity's reminder of, well, our humanity. We're not omnipotent or omniscient. There will always be more to discover, more to understand and that new knowledge will only lead to more mysteries, more uncharted territory. And then with the new knowledge we gain we go back and look at the old knowledge in a whole new light. Suddenly everything we know is new even though we knew what we had known before the new knowledge, wait, erm, we know, ah, no, that's not what I meant."

My grandfather's patchy eyebrows lowered suddenly in realization, "Oh, dear. Did I have a ramble?"

I chuckled.

"Yes, but it was good one."

"What did you ask me? Ah, yes! Mysteries at Dreycott. You know, I always did have a hunch that there was quite a story behind that school, one that could shake all of London, if you can believe it. But I never-I never looked into it as much as I would have wanted." He shook his head slowly, "To be a boy again."

"I like mysteries, too, of course, but don't you think, sometimes, sometimes they can be dangerous?"

"Oh? Yes. Very astute, Amelia. Heading off into the unknown and all of that."

"So, how do you know if the mystery is really worth pursuing?"

My granddad did not speak for a long time.

"It's not an easy question to answer," he said, finally. It was a quality I'd always admired in him. He never was afraid to admit he wasn't sure about something. Somehow he was able to do so in a way that reflected not incompetence, but wisdom.

"Will solving it change things for the better? And what do you stand to lose, if anything, in the process? In other words, do the benefits outweigh the risks? More important, what might happen if you don't pursue it? And this is only one line of thinking. We could go on and talk about moral obligation and personal responsibility."

"Solving it would definitely change things for the better." I replied, trying to sift through his words, "There are risks, but it's hard to say how big. And what if you don't think you're the right person to do it, even if it should be solved?"

My grandad smiled mysteriously at me, his keen blue eyes reflecting starlight.

"Who is the right person?"

I sighed.

"A mystery in itself, I suppose?"

My grandfather chuckled as he settled back into his chair.

"Everyone has knots to untangle, Amelia. They bind us from birth, I think, but as we grow they can become tighter. We spend our whole lives trying to undo them."

"Oh," Again, I wasn't sure why he had taken the conversation in this particular direction.

"I think, however, sometimes we can become so caught up in our own knots that it's hard to see beyond ourselves, our failures, our fears. It's easy to forget the aid we can give others in their time of need. And the aid they can give you."

I was silent.

"Whatever's troubling you, Amelia, I'm always here to listen and to help you. I won't be shocked, or angry, or upset at anything you have to say."

I swallowed heavily. My eyes had started to burn again.

"I know that."

"Your parents are here for you, too."

My gaze fell to my mug.

"I know," I said, softer.

My grandfather laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"I won't force you to tell me anything you don't want to." The creases lining his face seemed to deepen as his expression saddened. "You're not so much a girl anymore, I know. You're becoming a young woman, free to make more of your own decisions."

Was it true? I often prided myself on being mature for my age in comparison with many of my peers, but in some ways I still felt very small inside. Sometimes that smallness showed itself too readily. I thought of my first night at Dreycott, how frightened I had been when I'd heard screaming and burst in on play rehearsals, and the night of the play itself. My new school had tested me in a myriad of ways and I was almost certain I had failed, or was about to fail, ready to burst with the weight of it all. But it had to be a secret, at least for now. Didn't it? What was I afraid might happen?

My conflicted reverie was suddenly interrupted as my granddad doubled over, wracked with a dry, laborious cough that shook his whole body.

"Granddad?"

Even as the coughing subsided, he did not look up, but sat gripping his knees, his breath ragged and short.

"Granddad, are you alright?" I pressed. I was frozen in my quilt, my heart thudding in my chest, the mug cool in my hand.

My granddad finally straightened and offered me a feeble smile, adjusting his spectacles. Beneath his shirt, his chest continued to heave.

"No need for concern, dear. I've just been fighting a bit of a cold, that's all."

"Should you go to the doctor?"

"Good heavens, it's nothing that serious."

He ruffled my hair.

"But it's getting rather cold now, shall we go in?" He offered me a hand.

"Yes, let's."

As we walked into the house together, I could not help but notice how frail his hand felt, still gripping mine.

We did not speak of Dreycott much for the rest of the holiday, but I often stirred in my head everything he'd spoken about that evening, debating whether or not I should say anything more. Would he try to dissuade me if he knew the truth? Would it be for the best, if he did? But what of my three friends? If it came down to it, who would I choose: them... or him? It was almost too dreadful a dichotomy to bear. Finally, however, after much agonizing, I decided on a compromise. I would go through with whatever plan Clive had concocted and afterwards, no matter how it all turned out, I would tell my granddad the whole story. Right now I needed to focus on steeling myself, mentally preparing for whatever might happen. When the most dangerous part was over and done with, then I could focus on my granddad's concern and my own conflicted conscience.

Two weeks at home passed quickly, a blur of early breakfasts and late chess games, afternoons working in the garden, laundry and reading, dishes and rain, tea and Pangur. The humdrum of ordinary, familiar living that offered nothing unexplained or mystifying. Dull, but safe, like a goldfish in a glass bowl.

And then I was back on a train, back in London, back in Dreycott's drafty halls, as though I had never left. Back to stone and secrets.

I had barely finished unpacking when Gemma came knocking.

Clive was finally ready for us.

As soon as we were gathered, he lead us down into the hideout behind the portrait, the safest place to talk. Gemma and I positioned ourselves on the settee across from Clive as Bernard lit candles. The small room was still decorated with deflated balloons and sagging streamers from my birthday back in March.

"My plan can be summarized in two words."

Clive held up one finger, then another, as he continued.

"Simple and audacious."

Gemma clapped her hands. If she had spent her own holiday agonizing over May 14th, she hid it very well.

"I already like this plan."

"I wanted something we could easily carry out, straightforward, practical, but also bold. We have to be on the offense, as it were."

"Before you get into it, tell my why we weren't made privy to this plan earlier?" Bernard said, settling himself on a nearby crate, "Shouldn't we have come up with it all together? Or are you the only capable one?"

"I just thought it would be easiest to come up with something myself as a starting point," Clive said, "I didn't tell you before because I wanted to make sure I got all the details right. Of course I want your input. We can adjust the plan as needed."

He sounded cool and relaxed. Once again, spending time away from Dreycott had apparently done him some good. Of course, being in his element could have contributed to his demeanor, as well. I felt that Clive was most content when he was staring down an enormous challenge fully prepared, as he was now.

"So, what is the plan?" I hoped my expression and voice matched Clive's own, even though my stomach was heavy with queasiness.

"Obviously our number one priority is figuring out the five W's on the Statue."

"The what?" Gemma asked.

"Yes. And the 'who', 'when', 'where', 'why', and you could also include 'how'. _What_ exactly is this Statue? _Where_ did it come from and _why_ has it taken to terrorizing pupils?" Clive began to page through his ever-present notebook, "Now, thanks to Amelia's investigative work, we do have a fairly solid theory regarding the three dates when it should appear in the rotunda, May 14th being the first. That's when we'll strike."

"Right, of course, we know all this already," Bernard groused.

"I'm just making sure we're all on the same page," Clive replied, "Now, we know the day, but the exact _time_ is the next problem to consider. This is where it gets a bit tricky." Clive pulled a sheaf of stapled papers from his bag, "This is the night patrol's schedule and routes for this term, courtesy of Amelia. Using this, as well as information gleaned from Bernard, I have been able to roughly calculate the window of time in which the Statue will appear."

The three of us remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"According to the schedule, a patroller should pass through the rotunda every twenty minutes." he said.

"So, the Statue should appear sometime in between two of those rounds? Is that what you're saying?" I ventured.

"I believe so, yes. And remember, after Bernard saw the Statue the lights went out, leaving the rotunda in total happened to Edith, and Colin, as well. The rotunda has a small skylight, if you remember, so it absolutely must be dark out by the time our wayward pupil enters the rotunda."

"I suppose you've already determined the sunset of May 14th?" Bernard asked.

Clive allowed himself a small smile.

"Naturally. 8:45. A patroller is scheduled to pass through the rotunda at 8:40 and then, of course, again twenty minutes later, at 9:00. The Statue could appear during this fifteen minute interval or later, but absolutely no sooner."

"Whew, counting. Wasn't expecting counting," Gemma said, rubbing her forehead.

Bernard made to shoot her a disgusted look and then saw she was smirking at him. He folded his arms.

"This is all very well, Clive, but aren't you forgetting about curfew? We might as well be in prison for how closely they watch the dorms. We'll never be able to sneak out."

"Clive did it during the initiation," Gemma countered.

"Yes, but that was different," I said, "Almost all of the Patrol was gathered in the cellar that night."

"Amelia, your curfew is later than ours. Do you think you'd be able to come up with an excuse that could get Gemma past Vivian?"

I thought for a moment.

"I suppose I could say I was escorting her to the infirmary."

"Yeah, Vivian knows I get bad headaches sometimes. It could work." Gemma mused

"Which leaves Bernard and I," Clive gave the former a significant look, "We're going to have to cause a bit of a distraction."

Bernard's thick brows lowered.

"What? What does that mean?"

"I'll discuss that with you later. For now, let's continue on with the main plan. We'll meet at a prearranged spot at 8:30 and then each of us will go our separate ways to carry out our individual parts."

"Which are..?" Bernard prompted.

"I'm getting there. If the events of last year truly are repeating, we know that, somehow, a single pupil will find themselves walking straight into the rotunda."

"Which is still weird," Gemma said with a frown, "How does that happen? Do you think the Statue is, like, luring them using telephony or whatever it's called?"

"The correct term is telepathy, Mudget, and I can assure you I wasn't guided by any mystical voice in my head." Bernard replied. He shifted in his seat, "But that brings up another problem. We're not the only ones with curfew. No one's going to allowed in the hallways after eight. I mean, isn't that the reason Rosen came up with the early o'clock curfew in the first place, to avoid any more Statue encounters? How do we even know someone else is going to show up?"

"We don't," Clive said quietly, "Not for sure. But I've said it before and I'll say it again-there's a lot going on behind the scenes here that we don't know about. We don't have all the answers yet, so we'll have to make a few guesses, take a few risks."

He cleared his throat.

"Anyway, this pupil, whoever they are, needs to be removed from the equation. Someone needs to wait in the hallway right outside of the rotunda and stop them from entering."

"There's two entrances into the rotunda, though." I said, thinking of the time Gemma and I had inadvertently stumbled into the room through a side entrance.

"Right. So we'll need one person to keep watch near the main entrance and another to wait outside the secondary entrance, to ensure we don't miss the approaching pupil. It also allows us two pairs of eyes on the lookout for any suspicious activity."

"You would think they'd just keep the room locked up," Bernard grumbled.

"Neither of the doors have locks and, for whatever reason, Rosen hasn't seen fit to have any installed." Clive replied.

"Hmph. Well, I suppose I can watch outside one of the entrances. Unless there's an even more tedious task you need done."

"Oh, don't worry." Clive said, "It gets better. After the Statue appears, you'll need to throw open the doors. The more eyes we have trained on it the better and the light from the hallways should allow us a good glimpse of whatever it really is."

"I'll watch at the other door, if that's alright."

I spoke before I could stop myself. I had originally imagined all of us waiting for the Statue in the rotunda together and the thought of how I might react when the lights went out gnawed at me constantly. But keeping watch right outside before entering-that somehow seemed more manageable. Still, that meant Clive, and possibly Gemma, would be in the rotunda by themselves when the Statue first showed up. Whatever relief I'd been feeling dried up quickly.

"So, we have two lookouts." Gemma was saying as she bounced on the settee, "What about me and you?"

"Gemma, you'll be hidden inside the rotunda, behind one of the pillars. You're job is threefold. First, you've got to keep an ear open at both doors. When either Bernard or Amelia sees the pupil approach, they'll knock. Once you hear that knock, you're going to give me some sort of signal."

"Like a whistle? Or I could snap? Or clap? I could maybe howl..."

Clive waved a hand.

"Yes, something like that. Anyway, when the pupil is near, we'll know it's about time for the Statue to makes it appearance After you've relayed the message, Gemma, you'll need to keep a close eye out for it. My theory is that the rotunda has a third, secret, entrance, which is how it enters and exits the room. When the Statue appears, I want you to find that entrance and shut it, stand in front of it, block it off. You'll also need to signal Amelia and Bernard to open the doors."

"And what's the third part of my job?"

"I'll get to that in a second. Finally, there's my role. I'm going to act as the decoy pupil. I'll pretend to enter the rotunda, although I'll be already hiding behind another pillar, and when the Statue appears..." Clive's voice trailed off, one finger tapping the cover of his notebook.

"Yes?" Gemma prodded.

I said nothing, watching him carefully, taking note of the way his eyes flitted anywhere but our three gazes.

Clive took a deep breath while his own gaze settled.

"When the Statue appears, I'm going to try and speak with it."

There was a long silence as the three of us processed his words.

"You're joking." Bernard finally said.

"No, I'm not. From what happened at the play we know the Statue is capable of speech. I'm certain it has a larger objective than simply scaring a few school-children. It's trying to make a statement of some sort." Clive rifled through his notebook, "I've been breaking down it's 'prophecy' and I've come up with some pretty solid leads. First, it spoke of a second awakening. What do you think that's referring to?"

"I've been going over it, as well." I said, "And I think maybe that just means the statue, Hyacinth, is going to 'wake up' again, just like she did last summer. She's only appeared once before, so this would be her second time."

"My thoughts exactly. And then we have, 'six shall gaze into the eyes of stone and fall before the weight of fear'. That seems to be the clearest bit. It appears that double the amount of people are going to encounter the Statue (the eyes of stone) this term and see their fears come to life."

"If that's the case," Bernard said, "How do we know it's going to appear the same three days as last year?"

"Again, we don't," Clive said, "But it's all we have to go on. We have to at least try."

"'And so it shall be, summer by summer, until the gray house collapses, until the roses are trampled underfoot, until the injustices committed against the ones who have been wronged are known', blah, blah, blah," Gemma read from Clive's notebook, "Summer by summer... So, erm, the Statue is going to appear each summer until three things happen. What's the gray house? Dreycott?"

"Maybe," Clive said, "I'm assuming the roses are symbolic of something. At any rate, the Statue seems to be implying that it's cursed and that certain events must take place, must be brought to light, in order for it to...well, not be cursed. That's why I'm going to try to speak with it, to see if it will reveal anymore."

"But what if it attacks you or...something?" Gemma sputtered,"Remember the doors? It's crazy bongos strong! Or it could just try to run back the way it came," she paled, "And you, you want me to stand in it's way?"

"I don't think it's going to attack. And you won't be unarmed, Gemma. We're going to bring a bucket of water into the rotunda with us. If the Statue tries to flee, you're going to dump it over it's head."

Again, another moment of silence as Gemma, Bernard, and I glanced at each other in bafflement. Gemma suddenly let out a short burst of laugher laced with disbelief.

"Erm, Clive?" I said, thinking he had to be joking this time, "A...bucket of water?"

Clive pushed back his bangs with a sigh.

"I have a hunch," he began, "About what the Statue really is. But I...I can't say anything just yet." He looked at each of us in turn, "You're just going to have to trust me on this one. I'll speak with the Statue, try to get it to answer a few of my questions and when it tries to flee, you'll need to dump the water, Gemma. Things should become clear after that."

Bernard closed his eyes, rubbing his brow.

"This. This is insane. I don't even know where to begin..." His eyes snapped open, "First off, how do you expect one of us to stop little lost Johnny from entering the rotunda? Punch him in the face?"

"That should be simple enough." Clive said, "Ask him if he's lost, talk to him, stall him. Or her. You're a patroller, Amelia, just tell them they're not allowed in or they'll get thrown in detention."

His words did little to reassure Bernard. He was off his crate now, kicking balloons out of his way as he paced.

"So we're waiting for this person, but suppose it gets later and later until a patroller shows up instead? Then what?"

"Again, simple. There are alcoves near both entrances where you can remain out of sight, but still be able to see the hallway. The pillars should provide sufficient cover for Gemma and I."

"What if the Statue's going to target a patroller this time?" I said quietly.

"Good point, Amelia." Gemma said, "I mean, I guess we don't know for sure the Patrol's involved."

"I've thought of that, too." Clive said, "It _is_ a possibility, but I have a hunch it's going to be a regular pupil."

"You and your hunches," Bernard said, shaking his head, "If even one's wrong, the whole thing goes up in smoke. A bit arrogant, yes?"

"It all sounds good to me!" Gemma countered, "Like you said, it's simple, it's bold. No plan will be perfect. Act first, worry later, it's the only way we'll get anywhere."

"What about you, Amelia?" Bernard asked me, "What do you think?"

"I..."

I wasn't sure what to say. I wasn't sure if I would have been comfortable with any plan, but I had to agree with Bernard. Clive's theories were just that-theories. If he was off, even by a little, how easy would it be for someone to get hurt? Yet, I could also see where Gemma was coming from. If we didn't act, we could miss the best chance we had at exposing the Statue.

"It's risky...but, but it may be the only shot we have."

I had a feeling that even if all three of us backed out, Clive would still try to attempt something. I wasn't about to let him go it alone. "I'm in."

"Me, too." Gemma said.

Bernard had taken to rubbing his brow again.

"Of course I want answers. I'll help, but I want you to know I'm very skeptical of this entire plan."

"I'd be concerned if you weren't." Clive said, "I know it's not quite fair to keep some of the details to myself, but I would never attempt anything like this unless I thought I had some fairly solid evidence. It's complicated, though...we need to see the Statue for ourselves before I can say anything more."

"Alright, Clive," I said, "We're with you."

The smile he gave me was grateful, but his brow was creased, as if something was still troubling him. How many nights had he lay in bed, how many snatches of time between classes and during meals had he spent constructing this plan, figuring in every possible factor, working out every possible question to the objections we might raise? Like Bernard, I wished he would have come to us with the plan sooner. Why did he think he had to bear the burden of doing it all himself? And why did he still refuse to share some of the details? Before I could say anything, however, Gemma clapped her hands.

"Goodie. Now that's out of the way, come see what I brought."

She jumped up and dragged over a large cardboard box she'd hauled down the passage with her.

The boys and I remained where we were, blinking, mouths hanging open. We were still digesting our conversation, would be for some time, but Gemma had already jumped to other matters, no qualms, no questions.

"Well? Come on."

As we gathered around the box, she began pulling out an assortment of items: a calendar featuring a variety of kitschy paintings of cozy cottages and meadows, a half-used bottle of perfume labeled "Satin Seduction", a rumpled blanket, and a lawn gnome.

"Gemma, what _is_ all this stuff?" Clive said, looking as puzzled as I'd ever seen him.

"Look, we're the Notebook Gang and this is our hideout. So I got my mum to find me a few things we don't use around the house to make this place a bit more comfortable. Maybe add a few feminine touches to balance out the sweaty boy smell. No offense." Gemma picked up the perfume bottle and squeezed its atomizer, releasing a fine mist that smelled of musty roses right in Bernard's face.

"Agh!" He pawed at his eyes, coughing.

"Sorry! Sorry, that was an accident. Really it was. Come on, help me put this stuff away and then we can go up."

As Clive and Bernard reluctantly draped the blanket over the settee and Gemma searched the room for a good place for the gnome, I hung the calendar on the wall, flipping through it until I reached May.

My finger automatically went to May 14th, a little more than two weeks away. I knew what would be happening until then. I would stew and fret over the plan every chance I got, imagining every scenario possible, every different outcome, all that could go wrong. Perhaps that was why I possessed any talent in chess. I was never content to stay in the present, but was always divining the possibilities of what might be. During the heat of a game, it was effective, but in real life it was more often a hindrance. Unfortunately, my brain saw no distinction between the two areas.

As it turned out, I had even more to worry about than what I had originally anticipated.

About a week after Clive had revealed his plan, Ursula stopped me on my way back to the dorms from class.

"Amy! There you are." She smiled and waved as her stride quickened to match my pace. Trailing behind her were two girls, one in Year 9 like me and another a year above. Rosen had dubbed them, along with another boy, patrollers at the end of last term. I had heard that there was going to be yet another patroller exam this term, which made me wonder just how many pupils Rosen thought she needed in her employ. True, a few would be graduating at the end of the year, but still, it seemed like overkill to me.

"Hello, Ursula." I glanced back at the two girls, "Er, how are the new recruits fairing?"

"Oh, they're learning." Ursula flipped her curls behind her ear, "Listen, I have a message for you. From Professor Rosen, that is. She wants to see you right away!"

My stomach dropped like a stone off a cliff.

"She wants to see _me_?"

"That's what I said. You remember where her office is right?"

"I think so."

Tugging at a strand of my hair, I turned and started off down the right hand corridor, in what I thought was the direction of the Professor's office. All the while my mind blazed.

What reason would Rosen have for seeing me? I mean, yes, I was a patroller, but I was last in the pecking order. It seemed that if the Professor ever spoke to anyone, it was the higher-ups: Vivian, Archie, Felix, and the like. What if the Professor had caught wind of what we were up to? Or what if-No. Enough of that. Instead of worrying, I tried to focus on remembering where to turn to reach her office. A rather pathetic part of me was almost hoping I'd get lost so I'd have a legitimate excuse for not seeing her. As it happened, however, I managed to reach her office in less than ten minutes.

Past the door, I was greeted with a familiar sight: Mrs. Brickle clacking away on her type writer. She looked up when she saw me and sniffed.

"Hello, Miss Ruth. Please go in and have a seat. The Professor had to step out for a moment, but she'll be with you shortly."

"Thank you."

I passed the secretary's desk and entered Rosen's starkly modern office. I hadn't been in the room since last December. Nothing had changed.

Settling into the stiff chair across from the Professor's desk, I busied myself glancing at the clock and the clutter scattered about the desk's surface. After a minute or two, my anxiety began to give way to curiosity. I glanced back towards the door. I could only just see the edge of Mrs. Brickle's desk. Now would be an excellent time to do some snooping.

I stood and tread softly around to the other side of the desk. As I bent forward to sift through her papers, I paused, suddenly hesitant. Granddad probably wouldn't approve of rifling through another's belongings. But when would I get a chance like this again?

"One thing," I told myself, "Just look at one thing, then get back to your seat."

My eyes immediately alighted on the one photograph perched on the desk's corner. I picked it up. The frame was black and the colors in the photo were faded as though the monochrome office had sucked all of the life out of it. Sitting on a stone step was a young Professor Rosen with a little dark-haired girl on her lap. She was smiling. Not her tight, professional smile, but a genuine one. They looked lovely together.

My eyes narrowed as I continued to study the picture. It was very hard to imagine the Professor being a mother, but surely the little girl was her daughter?

"Did you fax that copy, Mrs. Brickle?"

I nearly dropped the photograph.

"Yes, Professor, I'm doing it now."

I quickly set the picture down and flew around the desk to my seat.

"Miss Ruth is waiting for you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brickle."

I glanced over my shoulder, as Professor Rosen stepped into her office, shutting the door behind her.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said as she clicked across the room to sit down behind her desk.

"Is...something wrong?" I asked, feeling a bit self-conscious. I tried to keep myself from glancing at the back of the picture frame.

"Hardly." The Professor straightened some paper work and tucked it into a drawer, "Ms. Giltwing tells me you've been an excellent help to her in the library."

"We're working on sorting the books in the back room."

"Yes, she says she hopes to finish by the end of this term. I continue to be impressed by your high marks, as well. It appears you are thriving here at Dreycott, Amelia."

I didn't say anything. "Thriving" was not exactly the word I would have used.

"That's why, after careful consideration, I've decided to give you a promotion of sorts."

"A promotion?"

Was she going to make me a full-fledged patroller? I wasn't old enough, surely. But if so, that would mean I'd become a part of the night patrol. That could have serious ramifications for our plans...

"If you'll recall the main bulletin board in the lounge, there is a sheet of paper that reads 'special assignments' at the top. Do you know what I am referring to?"

"Yes."

I quickly remembered what Ursula had told me about the list. Sometimes high-ranking patrollers were given special, top secret assignments. The whole thing sounded rather suspicious.

"The patrollers who complete these assignments are the ones I consider the most trustworthy and most dedicated to helping me run Dreycott." Professor Rosen glanced towards the door. When she spoke again her voice was low, "Unfortunately, there have been... several issues with one patroller whom I previously thought I could rely on. I am looking for a replacement and you were one of the candidates I had in mind. What are your thoughts on the matter?"

My eyes drifted to my lap as I allowed myself a moment to think. Of course I should say yes. This was exactly the sort of opportunity Clive had been hoping I'd uncover when I had joined Patrol. And of course, I was also very curious about the assignments themselves. Why all the secrecy?

"What sorts of assignments?" I asked instead.

"Delivering papers and other office-type errands. As you can imagine, my job as headmistress is a delicate one and requires a certain amount of confidentiality. I like knowing I have several pupils who can competently handle sensitive documents and won't go sharing private school matters with classmates or teachers."

"I think I could manage that."

"A test, perhaps, is in order."

Professor Rosen opened a drawer, pulling out a sealed cream envelope.

"I would like you to deliver this to Mr. Trewinkle. He should be in the laboratory right about now. Keep it in your bag until you reach him."

I nodded. For some reason my mouth had gone very dry and my heart was clanging like a sprung alarm.

The Professor handed me the envelope.

"Come back to my office once you're done. And Amelia? Thank you."

Slipping the envelope in my bag, I stood and headed out of the office, past Mrs. Brickle. I started towards the chemistry lab in somewhat of a daze.

The Professor had surprised me. I hadn't been expecting a promotion at all and only now was my mind beginning to sort through the implications, both good and bad.

On the one hand, this could prove to be a fruitful development. Rosen thought I was trustworthy, she wanted my help. Who knew what I'd be able to learn about the school's inner workings? On the other hand, it meant casting aside any more thoughts of quitting Patrol. I was still toying with the idea. As much as I wanted to continue the investigation, I was tired of hanging at the edge of that miserable crowd.

I turned my attention to the envelope hidden in my bag. Another letter, another mystery. I was tempted to take it out and open it. Out of all the teachers, why would Professor Rosen need me to deliver something to Bernard's father? I couldn't deny I was curious to meet the man. Bernard didn't speak about him much and I only ever caught a snatch of him here or there.

After a bit of back-tracking, I finally reached the laboratory located on the first floor of the main building. Lessons had apparently just ended, as a steady stream of pupils spilt past me as I slipped through the door.

For the most part, the place resembled a typical school lab. Two counter tops set with deep sinks ran the length of the room. A heavy shelving unit near the back held beakers, vials, black bottles of chemicals, and other supplies. A cage of white mice stirred near a dented microscope. There were a few odd details, however, that quickly caught my eye. The wall near the far left corner was charred black as if it had caught fire, while overhead, a number of spider webs spanned the beams like spun cloud filaments. I kept glancing up at them nervously, afraid one of their occupants might decide to drop down on my head.

Mr. Trewinkle was near the blackboard talking with a small group of pupils.

I stepped further into the lab, the dusty wooden floorboards creaking beneath my feet, causing them all to turn in my direction.

Mr. Trewinkle blinked. I didn't see much of Bernard in him. Maybe they shared the same nose. Instead of bushy eyebrows, however, he had scraggly ones that looked like they had been mostly singed off. His hair was thick and curly as his beard.

"Hello. Can I help you?" His voice was soft, his eyes wide and unblinking as an owl's.

"Erm, Professor Rosen wanted me to give this to you."

Drawing closer, I pulled the letter from my bag and handed it to him.

He cocked his head, appearing to weigh it in his hand for a second. Finally, he tore open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. His eyes scanned it quickly, brow furrowed in puzzlement, lips moving slightly as he read to himself. Finally, he looked up.

"Thank you," he scratched his head, "Eh, is that all? She didn't say anything else?"

"No. Not really."

I started to adjust my sash self-consciously. The action immediately drew Mr. Trewinkle's attention. His eyes widened and then narrowed before he glanced to the door and then back to the letter, ploughing through it once more.

"Thank you," he said for the second time, "Er, tell her thank you for the letter and I'll... look over it again when I have more time."

"Oh, okay."

"Er, _ahem_. Goodbye."

Shoving the letter into the pocket of his lab coat, Mr. Trewinkle gave me a half-hearted smile and turned back to his three pupils, who were still staring at me.

Once I was out of the lab and on my way back to Professor Rosen's office, I let out a loud breath. If all of the professor's assignments were going to be that awkward, no amount of confidential information was going to make them worth it. It was hard to know what to make of Bernard's dad, especially after only one brief interaction. He seemed polite, anyway, if not a little off-kilter. His reaction to the letter was perplexing, to say the least. What in the world had Rosen written him and why couldn't she simply tell him in person?

I was still turning these questions over as I passed through Mrs. Brickle's office and back into the professor's own. She was exactly where I had left her, writing, but looked up when I came in, folding her hands.

"Amelia. How did it go?"

"Fine. He, Mr. Trewinkle, did seem a little confused, though."

I studied the Professor's features closely to glimpse her reaction, but my words appeared to have no effect on her at all.

She nodded curtly.

"Thank you, Amelia. I've informed Vivian to add you to the list. Check it frequently. If you see your name posted, come and see me in my office and I'll give you your assignment."

So it was done. The professor seemed ready to return to her work.

"Thank you, Professor."

"I know you won't let me down, Amelia."

When I returned to the corridor, I realized how famished I was. It must've been nearly lunch time. Instead of going to my room like I had planned, I made straight for the dining hall. I wanted to ask Bernard a few questions about his dad before forcing myself over to the patrol table.

After I'd gotten my tray, I looked around for Clive, Bernard, and Gemma, but they hadn't seemed to have arrived yet. Maybe I'd be able to catch them after I finished eating.

With a sigh, I headed over to my regular spot, where just a handful of the crew currently sat. Ursula waved at me. I sat down next to her and the new recruits, two chatty girls who kept whispering and giggling to one another.

"Amy, I heard the news!" Ursula said as soon as I had set down my tray. "I'm so super happy for you! The professor almost never chooses J.P.'s to do special jobs. You're on your way!" she nudged my arm, "In a few years, you might just make Head Girl yourself!"

"That would be something," I said weakly.

Just then, Vivian sat down across from me with a glint in her green eyes and a wide, feline smile. I was on instant alert. Vivian in a cheerful mood was almost never a good sign. It usually meant someone else's mood was about to take a dive for the worst.

"Hello, Amelia." she purred, unfolding her napkin in her lap, "Congratulations on your promotion. You know, I always knew you'd pass through that little awkward stage of yours and become a valuable addition to the team." She gave a small fluttery laugh, "I was right, as usual."

"Erm... thank you?"

As Vivian shifted her attention to her boyfriend, who had just sat down, I looked to Ursula in confusion.

"Am I missing something?" I whispered, "I thought she might be annoyed with me."

"Well...it might have something to do with the fact that you replaced Felix on the list." Ursula whispered back reluctantly.

I felt the blood begin to drain from my face. Oh no. So Felix had been the one Professor Rosen was less than pleased with. She had picked me over him and so now, of course, Vivian was beyond elated. So much for trying to remain neutral. Whether I liked it or not, I was now firmly in Vivian's camp.

"I was just congratulating Amelia on her promotion, did you hear about it, Archie?"

The lanky boy blinked heavily.

"Er, yeah. Wha'?"

"I see great things in your future, Amelia." Vivian continued, "Stick with me. Us girls have to remain united, after all, against the dark forces of pig-faced brutes who like to think they're above the rules."

"Want to run that by me again, your worship?"

Felix slammed his tray down a few spaces away from Ursula.

His glare turned from Vivian to me.

"Something upsetting you, Felix?" Vivian's voice dripped with false concern.

Felix chuckled.

"Think I'm mad about being booted off Rosen's little list, do you?"

Vivian tapped a manicured finger against her chin, appearing to consider the question.

"It's the only thing I can think of, yes. What else could possibly make Felix look so glum, Archie-poo?"

Vivian's boyfriend shook his head.

"Not getting into this one, Viv."

"You're wrong, Queen V. I'm glad I'm off. You see, I'm finally starting to figure it out. Rosen has no idea what she's doing. And no matter how hard she tries to stop it, old stone face is gonna show up again."

The table went silent.

"We're not supposed to discuss this in the dining hall." Vivian hissed, her amused expression fading.

"Does it really look like I care? You all toddle after her like day-old kittens. But not me. Not anymore."

"You're quitting?" A note of anticipation had slid into Vivian's voice.

"I never said that."

Vivian sniffed.

"You won't have to. The Professor will never tolerate your attitude. After she hears _my_ report, she'll kick you off the Patrol entirely."

Felix smiled a wicked, wicked smile. Around him his cohorts snickered.

"I'd like to see her try."

Vivian opened her mouth to say something, but for once she seemed at a complete loss.

"You've-you've just crossed the line, Rimswald." she finally sputtered.

Felix gazed back at her indifferently.

"I stopped caring about the line a long time ago, Chesterham."

"Why don't you two cool it?" Ursula snapped in a low voice, "We've got new recruits at the table, remember?"

The three newest patrollers were looking between Vivian and Felix with a mixture of confusion and intrigue. They were probably already wondering who they should throw their support behind.

"Oh, by the way, Ruth,"

I felt the heat began to prickle on my cheeks as Felix cast a wolfish sneer in my direction, followed by every pair of eyes at the table. " _Congratulations_. I'm sure Dove is beside himself with joy. His precious little mole, finally making progress," Felix's lips twisted further, "And now you have the honor of groveling at the Professor's feet, as well."

That was it. I wasn't going to sit here and listen to this any longer. I stood and picked up my tray, putting distance between myself and Felix as fast as I could.

Once I had made it clear across the room, I stopped to catch my breath and scan the tables. Spotting Clive and Bernard near a window in the far corner, I marched over and promptly sat down.

"Amelia," Clive said automatically, looking surprised.

"I can sit here, can't I," I replied tersely.

Their eyes shifted to their food.

"I'm sorry," I closed my own eyes, "Just Felix and Vivian. I can't do it...not today."

"I heard there was some sort of upset?" Clive asked.

I quickly explained to them what had happened that day, starting with my chat with the Professor and ending with the drama at the table.

Neither of the boys said anything after I finished.

"Well?" I demanded.

"I suppose it's good to know that the Professor trusts you." Clive said after a moment, "But how do you feel about it?"

"I don't know," I said, tiredly. I glanced about the table,"Say, where's Gemma?"

"She said she was feeling under the weather." Clive replied.

"Another headache?"

"She didn't say. Just that she wanted to lie down for a bit."

"Hm. I'll check on her later."

I turned to Bernard, who had been silent throughout the whole exchange.

"Bernard, about your dad...do you have any idea why Rosen would give him a letter? He seemed a little nervous about it all."

Bernard scowled and I almost regretted the question. He dropped his fork onto the table with a dull clunk.

" _Nervous_? No, see, you don't understand. That's just the way he is. About everything."

"Bernard," I said quickly, realizing I had stepped onto unstable ground. "I didn't mean-"

But he wasn't done yet.

"It's gotten worse since we've come to Dreycott." Bernard picked up his fork again and stirred his bowl of steamed broccoli around. "I wish he'd never taken this job. He never talks to me anymore. Never asks me how school is going. Work. Just keep your head down and keep working and shut everything else out and it will be fine. It always is. Everything's fine." Bernard stood up with his tray. I could see his hands were trembling. "And he wonders why-"

He stopped suddenly, his ears turning crimson.

"Bernard, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"It's not your fault, Amelia. Just leave it." Bernard tramped away without another glance.

I buried my face in my palm.

"Ugh. What a rubbish day this turned out to be."

"That must've been building up for a while," Clive said with a sigh. He took a sip of tea,"Everyone's on edge."

I glanced up at him through my fingers. He looked tired and troubled.

"You know," I said, finally straightening, "I think I'm going to go back to the library. Play some chess." I hesitated, fingering one of my plaits,"You could come if you'd like. It's been awhile since we played each other."

The tension knitting Clive's brow seemed to slack, just a little.

"I think I recall you agreeing to give me a lesson?"

I smiled.

"Well, if our last match was any indication, you certainly do need one."

We quickly finished eating before handing in our trays to our friend the dishwasher/usher.

"Hey, it's you two! Braids and Junior Detective!" he said with a grin, "Seen anything oogity-boogity since the play?"

"No." Clive said, "Not really."

"Right, right. Well, that's good. That is good. Cheerio."

He disappeared into the kitchen without a second glance at us.

"I just cannot get a read on that man." I said.

"I've seen in pushing janitorial supplies around. Seems he does all sorts of odd jobs."

"Strange."

Clive shrugged as we headed out into the hallway

"The school is a bit understaffed."

"Yes, I've noticed that. Rosen's just being cheap, I suppose. The Patrol do help out a lot."

"They do a lot of helping, that's for sure."

When we reached the library, we headed straight for the chess set placed upon its small round table near the window. The afternoon sun splashed in through the glass, catching drifting motes and imbuing each piece with a soft glow. I usually preferred gloomy days for chess, but today the sunshine was welcome.

As we settled in our seats, I insisted Clive be white this time, which gave him the advantage of going first. Sliding forward my own pawn, I realized our pieces were in the same positions they had been during our first game. I had known so little about Clive then, so little about Dreycott's secrets. Now it was only a matter of days before we would face down the Statue together. I knew more then I had, but was it enough to know I was making the right decision?

"Seems like forever ago, doesn't it?"

I snapped back to the board.

"What?"

"When we first played," he chuckled, "I could tell right from the start how annoyed you were with me."

"I wasn't annoyed." I grumbled, in a decidedly annoyed tone, sliding another pawn forward.

"And now here we are."

"Here we are."

"...You're mad at me, aren't you."

I made a sound between a laugh and a scoff. Then I looked up at him. He was wearing a very serious expression.

"Don't be stupid. I'm not mad at you."

Clive sighed loudly for the second time in as many hours.

"Amelia, I might as well say it now. I've been meaning to, but..."

"But what?"

There was a long pause as he fiddled with the knot of his tie.

"You don't have to do this," he said, finally, "I can't pretend facing the Statue isn't going to be dangerous. And you've already done so much. So, please, don't think you have to do this. You, Gemma, or Bernard."

"But you do?"

Clive rubbed his brow.

"Yes. I mean, no...but...it's complicated."

He glanced down at the board, but didn't touch any of his pieces.

"And if you want to quit Patrol, by all means do it. I had the idea, but I guess I never really saw all the ramifications, the day-to-day aspect of it. How demanding it would be."

"Glad to hear I have your permission," The words came out before I could stop them.

Clive cringed and I felt a stab in my chest.

"Amelia, I didn't mean it that-"

"I know. I'm sorry. Of course you didn't. I'm just...I've had a lot to think about. And it's frustrating to try to sort it all out," I swallowed, but I knew then what I had to say next. The decision I had to make. "But listen, you've got stop beating yourself up about my joining Patrol. I chose to do it and I knew, maybe not fully, but I knew it would be hard. And there are times I want to quit. But I can't now. I'm going to keep at it. But you've got to trust me. That I know what I'm doing...I know what I've gotten myself into. I-I can face the consequences."

"I just don't want to see you, any of you, get hurt, especially not for my sake. I'm the one who dragged you all into this."

I closed my eyes and drew in a heavy breath.

"There you go again. You didn't drag any of us in, Clive. I wanted to help, for you, for Bernard, and now for Gemma, too. It's not your investigation, not anymore. It's ours. We're in this together and I'm not letting you face that thing alone. That's the end of it."

I was surprised at the strength of my own voice. Even as I spoke I felt my resolve solidifying.

Another long pause.

"For so long it was just me," Clive said, his own voice quiet, "But you're right. I do need to trust you. And, honestly? I don't know if I _could_ face it by myself."

"And I'll trust you," I murmured. Never mind Xander, never mind Vivian, never mind Felix.

 _Snip._

"Do you-do you really think we can do it?" I asked suddenly, my voice draining to a low husk. Outside birds twittered and chimed. I couldn't help but envy them to a certain degree. They could only carry out what they were born to do and nothing more.

Clive only shook his head

"I wish I knew for sure."

We both averted our eyes as the stillness of anxious rumination settled between us.

Then Clive cleared his throat and I looked up to see the unsettled line of his mouth suddenly shift into a fox-like smile.

"Look, we're letting our pieces grow cold. I thought you had a lesson to teach me...?"

"Oh! Correct, my dear acolyte," I said, trying my best to match his expression with a haughty one of my own, "Lesson number one. Never let your opponent catch you off guard."

With a flourish, I slid my pawn forward and captured his own, watching his jaw drop slightly in dismay.

"You know, Amelia," He cast me a sideways glance, "You really are a _ruthless_ opponent."

It was my turn for a jaw drop.

"That's it. Lesson's over."

Clive held up both his hands helplessly, but I could see he was trying not to laugh.

"Gemma's joke, not mine. Really. She insisted I use it next time I played you. She wanted to know if you thought it was funny."

"Oh, really? Well, we'll see how much a joke it is when I have your king by the throat next turn."

Clive raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"That's not even possible."

"Are you so very certain about that?"

I slid a knight forward, my mind already settling into its familiar pattern of working ahead, testing different solutions, searching for ways to break through his defenses, flaws, potential slip-ups we both could make. It _was_ ruthless, in a sense, but only because there was no room for emotion in the calculations of chess. Comforting in a way, even though it wasn't fair to say I felt completely detached. How could I when I was in the company of someone who somehow made me feel lighter despite the weight, like solid stone, pushing down on me?

As I turned my full attention to implementing the rough strategy I was already sketching in my head, I allowed myself to relax.

There would be time for worry enough later. Right now, I had an army to annihilate.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_**The Story So Far. . .**_

 _The foursome begin their third term with a meeting in the secret room behind the portrait, where Clive finally reveals his plan for confronting the Sentient Statue. Despite initial reservations, Amelia, Gemma, and Bernard each agree to their roles. As May 14th draws closer, Professor Rosen picks Amelia to join the ranks of her most trusted patrollers, allowing her a possible glimpse into the school's innermost workings. . ._

 **Chapter Eighteen**

The night of May 14th, the night everything went wrong, Gemma barged into my room, dragging a bulky, bright purple backpack behind her.

"Hello! Don't mind me!"

I looked up from the essay I was writing, or had been attempting to write, and watched as she hauled the pack across the floor and hoisted it onto the edge of my bed. Tongue stuck from the corner of her mouth, Gemma ripped the zipper open and plunged both arms inside. They came up brimming with an assortment of colorful clutter that looked as though it had been dredged from the bowels of a derelict pound shop. Heaping the stuff onto my blanket, she stuck her arms back in for more.

I leaned against the back of my chair, eyebrows raised. There appeared to be a few useful objects: a pocket torch, a coil of rope, and even a small first aid kit, but the rest was utterly random: a cheese knife, a pair of earmuffs, a calculator, a package of gum, and a sheet of sparkly star stickers, to name a few.

"...Gemma?"

"Hmm?"

Gemma picked up the now floppy pack and turned it upside down, dumping the remaining contents on top of the pile. "There we go! You wanna help me go through it all? I made a checklist."

"Gemma, are you planning on bringing _all_ of that?"

She flashed me a slightly offended look, lips pursed.

"I should say so! You can never be too prepared, Amelia. Don't you read mystery novels?" She sat down heavily beside her backpack, arms splayed behind her, head tilted back towards the ceiling in contemplation, "The detective almost always foils the criminal using the most everyday stuff..." She sat up, "Like, in this one I read, all she had was a toothpick and an envelope up against the most notorious coalition of drug lords in London."

Gemma plucked her own toothpick and envelope up from the pile. She held them up for me to see with a rather premature "I-told-you-so" smile.

"But, Gemma..." I began.

She waved my words aside as she stuffed the two items back into her bag.

" And then there's Theseus. All he had was a ball of thread to help him through the Minotaur's labyrinth. Anyway, the point is, who knows what could come in handy when you're facing down a living statue! It's best to bring everything you can, right?"

"Erm, I guess that makes sense. Sort of."

"Well, you'll thank me later."

She continued to sort through her things, but her enthused expression had slipped into one of mild irritation.

I tugged on one of my plaits, my eyes dropping to the floor. I hadn't meant to dampen her excitement over this evening, but I viewed our imminent endeavor quite differently. Less a thrilling adventure ripped from the pages of a novel and more a serious undertaking that required the utmost concentration and solemnity. A military operation of sorts, efficient and organized, where each individual step was carefully plotted to ensure success. Now that we were so close, on the brink of witnessing the otherworldly, I had to be that much more vigilant, assessing each moment as it came, remaining calm and clear-headed despite the knot of apprehension that had been slowly tightening in my stomach all day.

Still, I supposed being excited was Gemma's own way of handling the situation. Although it was true she had kept the rumors concerning her connection to Araneae to herself for as long as she could, bottling up her worries was the exception with Gemma and not the rule. Instead, she preferred to distill them into more positive outlets: silly jokes, harmless gossip, light-hearted topics of conversation, and meanderings on Greek mythology. A sip too much for me at times, but I envied her nonetheless.

I looked up at her with a weak, apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, Gemma. I know I'm not much fun."

She blinked at me behind her round glasses.

"What? No. No, I'm not mad at you, Amelia. I just have a headache is all."

"Oh," I shifted in my chair, resting my arm across the back, "Did you ever talk to your parents?"

She picked up the earmuffs and ran a finger across the felt band.

"Yeah, I told my mum. She thinks it's stress. Says I'm stretching myself too thin with school and drama and 'Oh, Gemma, too much gluten in your diet.'"

"Do you think she's right?"

Gemma paused, scrunching her nose in thoughtfulness.

"Ehhm, maybe? I really don't know, tell you the truth. I don't _feel_ that stressed...I mean not as much as I did. You know...before," She frowned, her eyes losing their focus for a moment before speaking again, "I'm trying not to let it bother me anymore, the rumors and all. If we figure out what the Statue is, we're sure to figure out why that happened to me, right? There's got to be a perfectly normal explanation?"

"Of course," I said, with as much conviction as I could muster.

Perhaps it wasn't quite enough for Gemma, whose brow crinkled as she studied me, looking a bit contrite.

"You nervous?" she asked softly.

I couldn't speak for a moment, embarrassment coloring my cheeks. Was it that obvious?

"Maybe a little," I said with a shrug, not wanting her to worry. Truthfully, I had spent the day in a somewhat surreal daze, passing through lessons like a ghost, as my mind tried grappling with the fact that the evening I had been dreading for so long was finally upon me. I had kept myself occupied with the mundane as much as possible: homework, the sandwich I'd eaten for lunch, the mild weather...but now the sun had set. It was here. It was finally here. In less than an hour, we would all be in position, finally putting the plan Clive had labored over for so long into action.

"I know I don't look it, but I'm nervous, too," Gemma said, "And also excited. I try to focus on that."

Still seated, she started bouncing up and down on my bed.

" _Agggh_ , I have no idea what's going to happen. It's sorta scary. Okay, really scary, but, you know, I think it'll all turn out. You, and Clive, and Bernard are all brainiacs and I'm, like, the muse of peppy spunk and useful junk!"

She smiled. "So try not to worry. We'll all have your back and you'll have our backs and I'll have my backpack!"

With a determined expression, she started grabbing handfuls of her stuff, vigorously shoving everything back into her bag just as there was a knock at the door.

"Light's out in an hour."

I slipped out of my chair. Eight o'clock.

"Well, here comes the first hurdle, ready or not."

Gemma grimaced as she put the last of her things away and zipped the bag closed.

"Vivian,"

Step one of the plan: wiggle Gemma out of curfew by telling Vivian that she wanted me to escort her to the infirmary. I felt uncomfortable lying, even to the Head Girl, but there did not seem to be any other option.

I opened the door, peering out. Juliet was already a few doors down, continuing her half-hearted knocking as she poured over a teen celebrity tabloid.

"Juliet?" I asked.

She turned, annoyed as usual, glitter eye shadow flashing.

"Didn't you hear me? Oh, Amelia. I always forget that's your room."

"Have you seen Vivian?"

Before she could reply, a brusque voice came from the other end of the hallway.

"Looking for me?"

I whipped around. Vivian was striding towards me, ponytail flying, her expression more than a little cross.

I swallowed.

"Yes, I wanted to ask you something. You, see, erm, it's Gemma, she–"

"Ah, yes. Gemma."

Vivian stopped in front of me and craned her neck, jade eyes narrowing as she tried to see into my room.

"Is she in here?"

"Yes, but–"

Before I could finish, she pushed past me and immediately latched onto Gemma's arm, pulling her up from the bed.

"Hey, what're you doing!?"

"Don't play the dumb innocent, Mudget. You and I are going to have a little chat...in detention. Excuse me, Amelia."

Vivian elbowed past me again, dragging Gemma behind her.

"But–but I didn't do anything!" Gemma sputtered as she stumbled along, too flabbergasted to even try to free herself.

"Vivian, what's going on!?" I demanded, hurrying after the two.

Vivian stopped in the middle of the hallway, her hand still clamped around Gemma's arm. She released the exasperated sigh she only saved for dim-witted subordinates.

"Confidential, I'm afraid," she turned to Gemma, teeth clenched, "Now, come along, Mudget, don't make this difficult. We don't want to get Ms. Goodson involved, do we? Or your parents?"

"But, but–" Gemma gave me a desperate, pleading look.

"But curfew!" I blurted stupidly, attempting to block Vivian's path.

"Don't talk to _me_ about curfew. Now, out of the way. Really, Amelia, I expect better of you."

Vivian stepped around me as she put her free hand on Gemma's shoulder, steering the poor girl down the hall at double the pace.

"Hey, not so fast!"

Before they reached the doors, Gemma managed to twist her head back over her shoulder, eyes still beseeching as she silently mouthed something. I squinted as she repeated herself.

" _Go without me_ ,"

"Come _on_ , Mudget."

I watched the Head Girl push her through the doors and down the stairs beyond until, finally, they fell out of sight.

No.

The empty hallway swayed. I was on a lift that had suddenly plummeted several levels.

No, this couldn't be happening.

The plan was already in shambles and we hadn't even started. What on earth could Gemma have possibly done that Vivian had to drag off her to detention at this hour? Why tonight of all nights? What now?

"Oooh, I wonder what she did this time,"

Juliet's grating voice from behind snapped me out of my stupor.

"Do you have any idea, Amelia?"

I didn't reply. Instead, I started down the hallway, my gait stiff, as if I was under a spell. Once I reached the stairs, however, I let my feet take over. They carried me down the steps three at a time, past the boys' dorms, where I caught snatches of some sort of commotion. Clive and Bernard's distraction, I could only imagine.

Into the maze that was Dreycott, I pounded down twisting passages, past darkened windows, and slightly surprised patrollers, never slowing, mind narrowed to one objective as I headed in the direction of the east wing, the rotunda, to Clive and Bernard who doubtless were already waiting at our rendezvous point.

I whipped around a final corner and caught sight of the alcove with the dented suit of armor that we had agreed upon, near the rotunda's main entrance. Stopping just short of it, I doubled over, hands on my knees as I allowed my lungs their fill of air.

"Clive..." I managed between breaths, "Bernard..."

Cautiously, the two boys peered out from behind the armor.

"Amelia! You made it..." Clive's relieved expression wavered as his eyes moved past me and back again, "...Where's Gemma?"

"Vivian,"

The boys stepped back as I squeezed past the armor into the small space behind, "Vivian thinks she's done something. She's taken her to the detention room."

A look of bewildered shock passed between Clive and Bernard.

"She knows what we're up to," the latter hissed, clenching his fists, "She's probably gone to interrogate Mudget. It's over."

"Not so fast," Clive closed his eyes, clasping a hand to his chin, "We don't know that for sure."

"What do we do?" I pressed, trying to still my cartwheeling mind. If Bernard was right, if Vivian did know something of our plan, would she be able to squeeze anything out of Gemma? What if there was a battalion of angry patrollers already in search of us?

"We go ahead with the plan, albeit with a few modifications," Clive said, "Bernard, you'll still stand guard right here. Amelia, you'll have to fill Gemma's role and your own, which means you'll guard the secondary entrance from inside the rotunda."

His words came out quick and crisp. For a second, I was impressed at how well he could think on his feet, then I was shaking my head.

"I don't know, Clive. Maybe we should wait. We shouldn't rush into this so fast. Not without Gemma."

"You're right," Bernard piped up, "Until we figure up what Vivian's up to, we should go back to the dorms and lay low. The Statue will appear again. We'll have another chance."

"No," The word was as resolute as Clive's expression, "No, it has to be tonight. We can't afford to wait any longer. We need to head out now."

"But Clive–"

From somewhere down the hallway, a clock chimed the half-hour. Eight-thirty already. We were supposed to be in position by now.

"Alright," Clive said, shouldering his messenger bag, "I'll go first. Amelia, wait a minute or two and then head to the secondary entrance. Knock and I'll give you the all clear."

As he slipped past the armor, he paused, turning back to give the two of us a small, confident smile

"We're ready for this,"

He exited the alcove, glanced quickly about him, and dashed down the hallway.

My eyes found Bernard's, half-hidden by his furrowed eyebrows.

"I don't like this."

"Neither do I," he said, "But he's not going to stop. He'll do it all himself if he has to."

I tugged at a strand of my hair in frustration, the knot in my stomach going taut.

"But why? Why is he so...so _adamant_?"

Bernard sighed.

"I've been asking myself that for a long time now. It is true, though. I've never seen anyone so driven. Makes me wonder..."

His words faded and we let the minute pass in silence, both preoccupied with the question I had voiced and the greater one of what was to come. Finally, I cleared my throat.

"I guess we're doing this, then."

"It appears that way."

I held out a hand.

"Good luck, Bernard."

Bernard shook it briefly.

"Keep him out of trouble. I'll be here."

Once again, I squeezed past the armor, glanced down the hallway both directions as Clive had done, and proceeded back the way I had came, turning a few corners and then slipping into the windowless side passage where the rotunda's secondary entrance lay.

I knocked.

Footsteps responded before the door slowly creaked open. Clive peered out.

"Come on."

I followed him into the rotunda, taking in my surroundings. Nothing in the room had changed since my previous visit, when Gemma had run off by herself. Same portraits lining the curved walls and same columns sprouting from the polished wood floor, holding aloft the domed ceiling set with its round skylight. Right now, it held captive a shard of the night, like an enormous lapis lazuli. I noticed for the first time the faint mural painted in golds, pale yellows, and musky browns that swirled across the ceiling. It was difficult to make out what the mural depicted, but it appeared to consist of oddly dressed men and women engaged in various forms of study: reading books, examining maps and charts, peering through telescopes, and mixing vials.

"Here,"

My attention was drawn back to Clive who had retrieved a metal bucket, brimming with water, from behind one of the columns.

"I snuck this in earlier," He held it out to me, "Find a place for it nearer to that door, will you? Make sure it's out of sight, but easily accessible. You'll have to be the one who dumps it out over the Statue's head."

I was about to say something smart, thought better of it, and took the bucket from him, hauling it over to the door I had just passed through as he made his way to the other side of the room, flipping through his notebook.

My mind was spinning even faster than before. Not only would I have to keep an eye out for a wandering classmate who had somehow managed to avoid curfew and try and find the secret, third entrance the Statue would supposedly appear from, but also dump water over its head, an idea that seemed increasingly ridiculous the more I thought about it. I could leave, if I really wanted to, but Bernard was right. Clive would stay and see his plan through whether he had help or not. Although... I set the bucket down behind a column near the door, considering. Clive had confessed to me that he didn't think he could face the Statue alone. Still, with his raw determination, I was willing to bet he might try.

And then there was Gemma. It felt wrong to go ahead with the plan without her. Not only because we needed her help, but also because she was so much a part of everything. Was Vivian giving her the third-degree right now? Another side of me wanted to head straight to the detention room to ensure she was alright.

What to do...what to do...I didn't know. Leave or stay. Neither seemed like a good option. The confusion I had felt over the plan prior to this evening was nothing compared to the anxious turmoil roiling my stomach now.

"Clive," I said, not sure what I wanted to say, but feeling I had to say something. Before I could continue, however, slow heavy footsteps came from past the main entrance.

We both ducked behind columns just as there was a rattle at the double doors. With a low creak, they swung open.

My back pressed against the cool marble of the column, I turned my head slightly to see Trevor entering the room, his steps rebounding loudly off the high ceiling. He had apparently passed Bernard without seeing him.

I folded my arms, pressing them against my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible.

The patroller proceeded across the room, stopping in the middle to glance around. Finally, he continued onto the secondary entrance, brushing past the column I was stood behind. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. A moment later, he opened the door and passed through.

As soon as the door clicked shut and Trevor's footsteps faded, Clive slipped out from behind his column.

"It's nearly 8:45. We should–"

He stopped as the lights began to flicker erratically. For a few seconds, the room tumbled through a confuddling sequence of warm glow and pitch, like a dripping candle struggling to stay lit, until the lights finally winked out as one. Smothered for good.

I remained where I was, blood pounding in my ears. A faint blue light still shone from the round skylight, but it was no longer enough to penetrate the gloom.

"Clive?"

"I'm here,"

There was the small sound of a switch being flicked and then a beam was shone in my direction. I shielded my eyes and started across the room, drawn towards it like a moth to a flame. My rational side told me to stay by the secondary entrance, to stick to the plan, but it was silenced by the louder, more instinctive, desire to be near another person.

"Already?" I whispered, my mouth dry, as I reached Clive's side. His eyes were flitting around the room with his torch, not nervously, but systematically, taking everything in.

"I don't know," he said. His gaze moved towards the main entrance. "...Bernard?"

" _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh"_

We froze. For a shadow of a second, I felt my heart stop in my chest.

" _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh."_

A familiar sound, but one that sent the iciness in my chest searing through my entire body, freezing the blood in my veins, sending stiff hairs crackling up the back of my neck.

" _Crrruuunchhhssshhheh."_

The beam of Clive's torch grew wilder as it danced around the circular room, trying to pinpoint the origin of the sound. Suddenly, it glanced off a flicker of white movement near the shadowy far wall.

"There!" It was more a rasp of surprise than a word.

Slowly, cautiously, Clive pivoted his wrist, dragging the watery circle of light back to what it had only just snagged.

We drew in a sharp breath as one.

Standing beneath the portrait of Sydney Dreycott was the figure who had consumed so many of my thoughts ever since that evening last autumn when I had first learned of its existence. A statue of a young girl, her back to us as she gazed up at the portrait. Perfectly still.

Even from this angle, I had no doubts. The statue before us looked nearly identical to the one of Hyacinth standing guard in the fountain out on the lawn. Her skin, her old-fashioned dress, her long, loose hair, all made of feathery gray stone blended with the soft greens of lichens and darker water stains. With a painful grinding sound, she turned in our direction, her movements stiff and laborious. Watching her move was like flipping through a series of snapshots, one after the other, each bringing a sudden slight but noticeable change, almost mechanical. When her eyes finally met mine, I drew in another breath. Against the white light of the torch they were cold and blank, empty stone marbles; yet, somehow, there was a hint of sadness to them, as well. A slight confusion.

For a moment, my fear subsided, replaced by something else. She looked little more than a child, a young girl who had lost her way.

Then I remembered Bernard. The doors to the lecture hall. The terrible whispering. The message fraught with foreboding.

Clive took a step forward, his torch still trained on the figure.

"Clive."

I caught his free hand before he was out of reach. He blinked back at me in confusion and I quickly let go.

"We'll go together."

He nodded towards the secondary entrance.

"Stick to the plan. Have the bucket ready."

Eyes now fixed straight ahead, he started to approach the Statue.

I glanced towards the secondary entrance, than the main, debating. Should I signal Bernard to throw open the doors as had been the original plan? Was he out there now, somehow detaining the Statue's intended victim? Or should I listen to Clive and retrieve the bucket, ludicrous as that part of the plan seemed? Perhaps I could accomplish both...I bit my lip, my eyes flying to the ghoulish figure in question. I didn't want to alert it to what I was doing. Right now, its attention was directed solely upon Clive, who had nearly reached the portrait under which it still stood, sheathing himself and the Statue in a steadily-shrinking halo of light from the torch the closer he drew.

Where I stood was, in contrast, shrouded in gloom. Perhaps I could make it without being seen. I started edging my way across the perimeter of the room, towards the secondary entrance where I would throw open the door and then grab the bucket. At least then we'd have a bit more light and an easy escape if one was needed. As I skirted the columns, my eyes remained on the circle of light, my ears straining to hear.

Clive had stopped several meters from the Statue, a distance close enough to initiate conversation, but far enough that he could easily slip out of its reach, if need be. With one hand, he directed the torch towards the Statue's bare feet, nearly hidden by the hem of its dress, while raising the other, open palm, in a gesture of friendliness.

"Hello," he said softly.

The Statue stared at him, unblinking, motionless once more.

"My name's Clive, what's yours?"

The Statue hesitated, head tilted slightly as it appeared to process the question.

" _H-hyacinth, or a shadow of the one who bore that name_."

Instead of the piercing whisper we had heard during the play, her voice was softer than Clive's, breathy, as if she might faint.

"Are you lost, Hyacinth?"

Hyacinth paused again, then shook her head slightly, the action producing the equally slight scraping of stone.

 _"I come with a message."_

"A message?"

I stopped halfway to the door, not wanting to miss what was said next.

 _"Yes. I have been brought to life to expose the secrets buried within this school. To avenge my family, this school's original custodians, the ones who have been wronged for centuries. The Dreycotts."_

Clive was silent for a moment, the torch's beam wavering slightly.

"Who has wronged them?" he asked finally.

" _All becomes clear in time. The Eye of Araneae will reveal the truth. Lost, yes, but not unreachable,"_ Hyacinth shifted, " _Until then, until the name of the ones are known, retribution and suffering to all who cross me._ "

Clive took a step back and I felt my body tense. I wanted to scream at him to run, to get away, but my throat had gone dry as bark.

The statue tilted her head.

" _But what is this I sense? Perhaps we are more alike than I thought. I see that you have already experienced suffering beyond measure_."

Clive did not move. It was impossible from my angle to read his expression.

Hyacinth advanced toward him, outstretching her ashen hand.

" _My death was not a natural one. My life was taken from me by the same ones who brought ruin to my family. Time stopped for me that day. Yet still I linger. Forever anchored to that moment."_

Her delicately carved fingers brushed against Clive's forehead.

" _I know your pain. Your sorrow,_ " Hyacinth's hand slowly drifted to her side as her fingers curled into a fist, " _Your fear_."

As the last syllable hovered in the room, a bright flicker caught my eye. I turned, sluggish slow as an underwater dream. A small flame had bloomed out of nowhere and was now creeping across the floor, like seeping spilt milk, reflecting golden-orange upon the polished wood. As it curved about the center of the room, the flame climbed steadily, forked flares leaping to try and lick the ceiling above.

And then I realized.

My head whipped over to Clive. Hyacinth had vanished. He was alone, standing stagnant, torch rolling at his feet, watching the rising flames as they arced around him, surrounding him, closing him in.

My feet reacted before my mind, carrying me across the room and through the wedge of open space just as the crescent of fire joined arms, locking febrile fingers behind me, blazing into a wall higher than a grown man. The wave of heat shoved me towards the very center of the room, underneath the skylight, where Clive was still standing. His frame was quivering, hands clenched at his sides, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide, reflecting firelight.

"Clive?" I panted.

He didn't answer.

"Clive!" I grabbed his wrist, tugging at his arm. His feet remained rooted in place, "Come on, we need find a way out of here!"

The room was already starting to fill with smoke, bilious clouds rising to cover the circle of night sky peeping down through the skylight. The temperature, too, was intensifying, coaxing beads of sweat from my forehead, scalding my arms and legs. As I continued to tug at Clive, my mind scrabbling for some scrap of an escape plan, a terrible clanging erupted from somewhere in the room, forcing my hands to my ears. An alarm, so loud I felt the floor tremble beneath me, followed by the faint wail of a siren.

Despite the rising heat, Clive's face had taken on a terrible pallor, his eyes blinking rapidly as if he was trying to awaken from deep slumber. I uncovered my ears, despite their throbbing, and yanked at his sleeve.

"Clive! Are you alright?"

From across the room came the sound of a door banging against the wall, followed by a stream of incredulous swears.

" _Bernard!_ " I called out, shouting to be heard above the cacophony.

"Amelia! What–"

"We're trapped in here!" I suddenly alighted on an idea,"Bernard! Get the bucket! The bucket of water! It should be near the other door!"

"A-alright! Hang on!"

With a grunt, Clive suddenly wrenched his sleeve from my grasp.

"Clive!?"

He darted around the circle, skidding to a stop before each wall of flame only to twist around, feet stumbling over one another, and try again, his breath emerging in ragged gasps, like a mouse caught between a trap and the claws of a cat. For a second, I forgot the inferno surrounding us, bound by some terrible fascination, as I watched him, small and strangely shadowed against the fire, trip over his torch and land sprawling on his hands and knees. He quickly pushed himself to his feet, limbs swinging frantically as he pounded round the circle once more, head swiveling on strained neck, eyes flitting a thousand directions.

"Clive!" As he passed me, I came to and latched onto his sleeve again, forcing him to a stop, "It's okay, we're going to get out of here!"

Even though he was looking right at me, I felt he was staring through me, staring through the flames, to somewhere else entirely. His features were a mask of horror and disbelief.

"No," he sputtered, words spilling out between rasps, "No, no, you don't understand. They're still inside. _They're still inside_!"

Again, he tore his sleeve out of my grasp, lunging towards the flames.

" _No!_ "

I latched onto his blazer with both hands and pulled him back, wrapping my arms tightly about his middle as he struggled to break free.

"Stop it! Clive, you've got to snap out of it!"

"No!" He was prying at my hands now, trying to break their grip, "Let– go! They're still inside! I need to go back!"

Although the fire did not appear to be spreading beyond its ring, the smoke was thickening, the mixture of alarm and siren melding into an ear-splitting shriek.

I coughed as a waft drifted past my nose, snatching the air as it went.

"Let me go!"

"Stop!"

Bracing my feet against the floor, I tried pulling Clive backwards, towards the center of the circle, but he was stronger than me and I knew any second he would break free. His nails dug desperately into my fingers.

 _Sppppppswwwwsh!_

A section of the flaming wall was suddenly swallowed up by a billowing pillar of steam and smoke, as water, painted gold by the firelight, pooled across the marble floor.

"Over here!"

Bernard's head appeared faintly through the dissipating cloud. Sputtering and coughing, he dropped to his knees and blindly peered through the space he had made, waving his arms wildly.

"Amelia! Clive! This way!"

"We're coming!"

I loosened my hold on Clive, thinking he would immediately move towards the gap in the flames. Instead, he turned on his heel, hurtling towards the curving wall of fire opposite.

" _Clive, stop!_ "

I dashed after him, snatching the edge of his flapping blazer again, reeling him back.

" _Please_..."

His head twisted around. Tears were pooling over his lashes and sliding down his cheeks. "Let me go. They're still inside. My parents are still inside!"

The blazer went slack in my hands. I blinked in shock, the pieces in my mind finally sliding into place.

Fire...alarms and sirens... _orphan_...

The implications hit me square in the chest, as if one of the room's columns had crushed me flat, squeezing what little air remained in my lungs.

"Clive," A raw, painful gasp of a word, as my grip tightened once more. "Clive, listen to me. Whatever you think... it's not real. But this smoke _is_ and if we don't get out of here right now..."

My words trailed into a fit of coughing. The flames were lapping up all of the air with their forked tongues, belching smoke, leaving nothing but an empty heaviness that weighed upon my burning lungs and brought stinging tears to my own eyes.

"No! I need to go back!"

Clive's eyes were as wild as his breathing, his shoulders heaving with each gasp for air.

"Bernard!" I managed as Clive tried breaking free once more.

Bernard appeared in the gap again and shot through, head bent, tears streaming from his tightly shut eyes, one hand over his mouth and nose. He clamped onto one of Clive's arms and I took the other.

"No! Stop! Let me go! _Let go_!"

Together, we hauled him across the circle as he continued to shout, fighting against us at every step, head whipping to look over his shoulder, desperate to get back to the other side. With each fierce tug of his arms, each footfall he dragged out, I felt my strength being sapped, cold weariness numbing my bones even as the fire threatened to cook my skin. A person walking at average speed could have reached the gap in seconds, but with Clive those seconds spilled into an eternity of sweltering noise and deafening heat, senses muddled into one buzzing blood-orange chaos. Every half meter a victory and curse rolled into one. No breath, no life, other than to move one foot then the other. Then the other. Then the other.

We had just about reached the gap when Clive, in a sudden feverish surge of power, wrenched his arm free of Bernard, sending the smaller boy stumbling back towards the flames with a yelp. He landed on his back just short, slapping at the sparks that latched onto his sleeve, wheezing against the smoke.

" _Clive_."

My arms still clung to his, but they were useless now, utterly drained, fragile vines clinging to a wall. I could see in Clive's eyes that he knew it, one more tug and he'd be free. Free to rescue his parents, free to let the fire swallow him whole.

The thought sent a last jolt of energy surging through my limbs and my grip tightened, feet pressing into the floor, words emerging from clenched teeth that ground against one another.

 _"I'm not...letting...go."_

Clive was using his free hand now to try and pry my arms from his. I twisted and his hand jerked, accidentally snagging one of my braids, ripping the ribbon free along with a handful of my pain in my scalp sent a needle shock down my spine.

I grabbed Clive by the shoulders, forcing him to look me straight in the eye.

"Clive, listen to me. You go into that fire and you're not coming out." I shook him, "Do you hear me? I'm not letting go and you're not going to let go either. You're coming with us. Right now," My voice faltered, as my lungs continued to tighten, "Please."

Clive blinked. His eyes were still wide, but a bit of clarity seemed to be returning to their depths. He gave a barely perceptible nod, chest heaving.

I reached out a hand for Bernard, still on the ground looking stunned, and pulled him to his feet.

Together the three of us stumbled through the gap, across the rotunda, through the secondary entrance, down the hall. The lights had been dimmed and not a soul was to be seen, despite the blare of alarms and sirens still emanating behind us. I raised a weak finger towards a door that let outside and we burst through it.

Into the night we careened, coughing and choking on huge gasps of sharp air that rushed through me like an arctic tidal wave, expanding my lungs in enormous heaves. We did not stop until we hit the fountain, alone, halfway between the school and the wrought iron fence.

Bernard pulled Clive, shaking and rasping and retching up alongside the basin and began splashing handfuls of water at his face. His coughing turned to sputtering as he dropped to his hands and knees beside the fountain, hair dripping into his eyes.

"Stop it!" I cried as Bernard made to scoop up more water. He was looking at Clive with a lost, bewildered expression. The water slipped through his fingers.

"He's...I'm just...We can't have him running back in there."

"He won't. Not now."

Now that we were out of the flames and the smoke, now that my mind could think clearly, an old, familiar feeling began to creep over me as I watched Clive, one that made my flushed face drain cold. The shallow breathing, the shaking, all of it bringing back the terror of seeing someone I loved, someone I needed, suddenly changed while I could only watch from afar, perched on the stairs, after everyone had thought I'd gone to bed.

But I wasn't a little girl anymore. I couldn't afford to be the helpless spectator any longer.

I dropped down beside Clive, who had wrapped his arms around himself, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath emerging in terrible short bursts.

"Clive..."

I put a hand on his heaving shoulder. The muscles contracted tensely.

"Amelia–" he managed through his labored breathing, "'m sorry. Should. Have known. Better."

"Shh. It's alright, now. It's over. We made it. We made it out." As I spoke, I put an arm around him and took his clenched right hand in my left, just as I remembered my father doing for my mother all those years ago. Under different circumstances, I might have been embarrassed and uncomfortable being so close, close enough to feel the throb of his heart, the shudder of each breath. But, for the moment, it seemed we had both slipped back in time, back to when we were no more than small children, and this thought helped to quiet my usual reservations.

"Amelia–"

Clive slowly opened his clenched hand, revealing my crumpled hair ribbon. He stared at it a moment, guilt and fear swimming in his eyes.

"I hurt you."

"It was an accident," I said, firm, but soft, taking the ribbon from his hand.

Clive looked at Bernard who had collapsed on the edge of the fountain, his arms dangling loosely

"And Bernard–I-I pushed you. I could've–"

"You weren't yourself," Bernard interrupted, eyes cast at his feet, "I'm alright."

He lifted one hand to tug listlessly at his earlobe.

"Well," he added after a moment, eyes now turned toward the looming building, "The school hasn't burned down, anyway. But you think someone would have heard the alarms and called the fire department. And where is the Patrol?"

Good. He was already back to his rational self. I, however, was too weary to engage in any speculation at this point. I allowed my eyes to slip shut.

"Amelia." Clive's voice was faint with exhaustion. He turned his head slightly as I reopened my eyes, "Bernard. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

For a moment, hot tears blurred my vision, but I quickly blinked them away.

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

Bernard gave him a tired nod.

"Thank you...both of you..." Clive said, after another long moment, "I–I don't know what came over me. But thank you."

"Of course," I whispered.

I sat with him for a long time, watching the last wafts of smoke drift off of our clothes, feeling his breathing slow and finally settle into a steady rhythm. Finally, his eyes closed, his head slumping to rest against my shoulder.

Silence.

One broken only by the fountain and the leaves and the wider world of London, carrying on its business. I looked up at the figure of Hyacinth, sad and serene, keeping watch over us, and I knew it wasn't the same as the one that had disappeared so swiftly in the rotunda. I couldn't put my finger on them now, but there were differences, subtle ones, like those between two hours. Somehow, knowing this made me feel slightly better. I allowed a deep breath of relief to escape me, as I nestled up closer to the fountain. We had made it. It was done.

"We should probably get back inside," Bernard said, folding his arms with a shiver as he looked about the lawn. "I don't know how, but I have a feeling that fire's long gone."

"You think so?" I murmered.

"It wasn't an ordinary fire. It should have eaten right through those floor boards. And it didn't spread at all. We'll go back there tomorrow and I swear there won't be a trace."

I was silent, thinking I never wanted to set foot in the rotunda again.

"We should get inside before someone finds us," Bernard repeated.

"Yes," I agreed, "We should."

But the three of us did not stir. Instead, we sat by the fountain in the shadow of the school and waited for the sun to rise.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_**The Story So Far. . .**_

 _The night of May 14th, Gemma is accused by Vivian and taken to detention, causing Clive to hastily push forward with the plan. The Statue appears and reveals to Clive his deepest fear: the memory of the fire that took his parents from him. Amelia and Bernard manage to get him to safety, but a number of troubling questions about the encounter remain . . ._

 **Chapter Nineteen**

Raindrops.

Plip, plop. Dripping into kettles and pots. Slipping down the windowpanes, blurring the black, wet leaves and white, wet sky beyond.

Black, white.

White, black.

Squares with sharp corners and lines, no soft blending of shapes like the leaves and clouds and boughs.

All lined up in rows. Can you count them...?

 _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6_...

The box was more interesting. Small. Tidy rectangle. Brimming with pieces, cold and clacking when stirred with fingers. None had faces but the horses. Blank, cold eyes.

White, black

Black, white.

What did a horse's nose feel like? Maybe soft and cool as moss. Maybe warm and dusty as cat's fur in sunlight.

"Amelia?"

Under the table. Under the table. Hurry, hurry. Scurry, scurry.

Socked feet sliding across the floor. Hoarse sighing, joints popping, creaking, aching.

"Amelia?"

Go away. Go away. Go away creaky, achy old man, smelling like newspapers and toast. Take your mean old cat, rumpled bag of bones. Can still feel the curved claw slicing skin, catching the edge of my nose.

Take your game. Always lining up the pieces, sliding them softly across the squares like your socks, staring, staring, staring at them. And then smiling and asking,

"Did you know that each piece has a different method of moving about? Each has a different role. Do you want to see?"

A creak from the ceiling. I look up, past the leaks in the cracks.

The whole house creaks. It's old like him. Sagging, sinking, empty rooms and locked doors.

Soft sobbing in the middle of the night.

I heard it in the middle of the night and I couldn't find the light near my bed. Fingers fumbling, heart tumbling. Blinking blackness.

Black, white, black, white.

"Why doesn't she sleep at night?"

I would always ask the next day.

"Amelia," my grandad smiled patiently, "Would you like to see how the pieces move?"

"Amelia?"

" _Amelia_?"

Black swallowed white and white swallowed black until only the color of oblivion.

" _Amelia_!?"

"Did you die? Oh, I don't know how to tell! Wait! Pulse, right? Amelia?"

I felt something warm press into my neck.

" _Uhghh_."

"Oh, gosh! You're alive!"

I cracked one eye open. Painful light snapped at me with blinding teeth. My head throbbed and swam at the same time, bobbing in a sea of muffled memories.

" _Hnhgh_?"

The pain was subsiding, the harsh light fading into a subdued gray. My eyelids fluttered and then settled low over my eyes, not completely closed. Someone was standing over me, their arm stretched across my shoulder, two fingers pressed to the side of my neck.

"What'ryoudoing?" I mumbled weakly.

"Checking your pulse!" The voice cracked with panic as the fingers were finally removed, "Amelia, what happened!? I didn't see you all day or Clive or Bernard and I–I didn't know what happened. What if you had all died!? How would I know!? I was so worried!"

I forced my gaze upward, past the hands being sifted through long, dark hair, into a pair of concerned brown eyes framed with glasses, blinking down at me between a creased brow and a small, slightly open mouth.

"Gemma?" The name felt rusty in my throat, "W-what time is it?"

"Amelia, it's past noon."

I let these words drift into my brain, trying to process them. No, it was night, I had only just gone upstairs after...

I pulled myself into a sitting position. I was laying on my bed, on top of covers only slightly rumpled, still wearing my uniform, socks, and shoes. Feeble gray light slanted through the narrow window. An oversized backpack, not mine, slumped in the shadows near the door.

Gemma took a deep sniff as I blinked the lingering sleep from my eyes, the fog from my brain.

"You smell like smoke."

She sat down on the edge of my bed, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"Amelia...w-what happened last night? Do you–I mean did the Statue..."

The Statue...

Like a fall down a flight of dark stairs, it all came tumbling back, each memory a step that struck the wind from my chest.

Gemma dragged away by Vivian, rushing to find Clive and Bernard, pushing ahead with the plan, the lights flickering out, _Hyacinth_. She had been there, we had actually seen her and then she had disappeared just as quickly, replaced by fire and fear. I could still hear Clive shouting, his pleas to rescue his trapped parents seared permanently to the inside of my skull. I shut my eyes. But we'd gotten out. We'd gotten out.

"Amelia?"

"I'm sorry..." I said, swallowing. I took a deep breath and reopened my eyes. They fell right to my lap. "I didn't mean to sleep for so long...But, Gemma... last night. I-it was bad."

"Bad!?" Gemma's grip on my shoulder tightened, "What do you mean?"

My eyes finally rose to meet hers. I caught my pale, weary expression reflected in her lenses.

"We saw her."

I told Gemma everything, or almost everything, beginning right after Vivian had dragged her off, to the early hours of the morning when Bernard and I had finally made our way inside, supporting Clive between us. The one moment I did leave out was when we'd reached the stairs to the girls' dorms and it was time for the boys to split off.

Instead of loosening, my grip on Clive's arm had tightened protectively as fresh fear cracked through the calm that had since settled on me. He shouldn't be alone. He couldn't be alone.

"Amelia." Bernard's voice was tired, but soft. "It's okay. Get some sleep. I'll keep an eye on him."

"...O-okay."

I quickly let go. Clive was nearly dead on his feet, but he managed a faint smile through the gloom.

"See you tomorrow."

"Okay," I repeated and watched the two boys disappear down the darkened hallway. Once they were gone, I had stumbled up the steps, into my room, and collapsed onto the bed. My dreams had been strange, flickering between firelight and half-formed memories. Trapped until Gemma woke me.

When I was finished with my story, Gemma was silent for a long time, eyes downcast. Her whole frame had wilted.

"Amelia," she finally said, "I'm so sorry. That's the most awful thing I've ever heard. For you...and Clive...and Bernard...I should have been there to help you."

She wrapped me in a hug and for once I didn't mind the feeling of my lungs being squeezed from their proper places. My throat began to burn as tears prickled my eyes, but I swallowed them down, just as I had done the night before, allowing only a long, shuddering breath to escape.

"It's over now. That's what matters," I said, as soon as she released me.

"So...there wasn't anyone else, then. You and Clive were the ones the Statue was waiting for?"

"It seemed that way."

"She showed you your fears."

I blinked. Clive had seen what he feared, certainly. But what about me? I felt a trickle of dread, but quickly blocked it out. No. I could think on that later.

Gemma shook her head, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose.

"I just can't believe it. It's all so horrible. I mean, I figured it would be a touch and go situation, but nothing like this."

"I know. I still can hardly believe it, either. But Gemma, what about you?" I said, suddenly wanting to change the subject, "What happened with Vivian?"

"Oh. That."

Gemma heaved a sigh as she pushed her glasses back into place.

"Sorry, I'm–I'm just trying to wrap my mind around everything."

"It's okay. Take your time."

"No, no. You're probably dying of curiosity." She straightened, pushing back her hair,"So. So so. Here's the gist of it. Vivian sits me down at a desk, slaps a copy of the handbook in front of me, and tells me to start reading."

"What?"

"Yeah. I try asking her what I've done, what horrible thing I've done that she has to whisk me off to detention at night, but she just shushes me and starts scribbling something down in that little dumb book. You know the one she records everyone's most grievous sins in? Like chewing gum and looking at her funny?"

"I know it," I said, a bit impatiently.

"Right. Well, then, like almost half an hour later, Trevor comes to the door and whispers something to her that makes her really nervous. Have you seen her when she's nervous? Her hands get fluttery and her voice gets really high-pitched," Gemma's own voice rose in pitch on these last words. She snorted, before noticing my anxious expression, "Whoops, sorry. So, er, she tells me to stay and keep reading until she gets back."

"Did you?"

"I tried, Amelia. I tried, but I don't have to tell you how bread-crust dry that stupid handbook is. Next thing I know, I'm drooling all over page one million and ten and Vivian's shaking me awake telling me I can go back to the dorms. I think it was about ten or so. Anyway, all completely pointless. She probably did it out of pure spite."

"It _is_ a bit odd, though, that it would happen the night of the Statue's appearance. Do you think Vivian knew anything about our plan?"

Gemma thought a moment.

"She never tried questioning me or anything. I do wonder where she went off to with Trevor, though."

"Hmm."

That was all I could manage for the moment. I would need a few quiet hours to myself in order to fully consider each perplexing question last night had raised. The chessboard would be the best place for it. But that could wait.

Gemma stood and stretched.

"So, do you feel like going to lunch? It's getting late. We should see if Clive and Bernard are up and about yet. Make sure they're both okay."

This thought dried the last drop of sleep from my system. The events of last night still hung over me like London smog. No doubt Bernard and Clive were feeling similarly, especially the latter. A distressing thought suddenly hit me. What if he was worse? The two other pupils who had seen the Statue last year had ended up leaving the school. Would Clive want to leave, too? It didn't seem like him, but, then again, last night had not seemed like him, either. I felt a pang in my chest at the thought.

"Right, just let me get changed."

Gemma picked up her backpack.

"I'm gonna go put this in my room. Meet you outside."

As Gemma left to put her things away, I quickly changed into fresh clothes, brushed out my hair, and braided it. I would have liked to shower to clear away the lingering scent of smoke, but I was too anxious to check on the boys to bother.

Finding Gemma waiting at the bottom of the steps, the two of us set off for the dining hall at a brisk pace. The place was in full swing by the time we arrived. As we headed to the back of the short line comprised of other stragglers, I couldn't help but feel strange to be amongst so many people after last night. I found myself wincing at every burst of laughter and fork clang. The whole room was too loud, too bright, too garishly chipper. Classmates with no inkling of what true exhaustion felt, or terror, or–

I mentally pinched myself. _Stop that. It's over. Let it go._

"See them anywhere?" Gemma asked, once we'd gotten our food. She turned her tray in an arc as she looked about. I followed suit, my heart thudding in my chest.

Almost immediately my eyes darted towards the patrol table. I could only hope Ursula wouldn't see me and call me over. Continuing to scan down the rows of benches, I sorted through the blue and silver clad figures, telling myself over and over not to be too alarmed if we didn't find them.

Then, at a far table, just barely touched by the light from the windows, I caught sight of a familiar tousled head of tawny brown hair next to a trim russet cut belonging to someone much shorter. Relief fell over me like fresh rainfall.

"There."

As we headed in the boys' direction, however, my relief began to evaporate, replaced by a more peculiar feeling. I couldn't figure out what it was until Bernard and Clive finally caught sight of us: overwhelming shyness. Last night, I had acted and said things without really thinking, things I never would have done or said if not driven by desperation. Now gray daylight streamed through the windows and everything was business as usual, which only mortified me further, causing all those words and actions to stick out in my mind like the hooks of a bur.

"Guys!" Gemma dropped her tray onto the table and wrapped an arm around either boy, "Amelia told me everything! I'm so glad you're both okay!"

"Keep it down, Mudget," Bernard grumbled sleepily, pushing at her hand, "You want the whole school to hear?"

I quietly slid into the bench opposite the two, my eyes on my tray.

"Amelia."

I looked up.

Clive's own eyes appeared heavy and tired, but there was no trace of that wild, lost look of last night. Instead there was concern, which only made me feel more sheepish. "How are you?"

"Fine," I said, swallowing, "But I'm–I'm more worried about you."

Gemma sat down beside me and took an enormous bite of sandwich.

"Yeah, anything we can do for you? I mean I could try to do your homework if you're too tired. Your teachers might wonder why you suddenly doodle little hearts and stars and butterflies over all your assignments, but at least you'll pass. I'm not doing your maths homework, though. Anyway, just try to take it easy the rest of the week, why don't you?"

"I'm alright," Clive insisted, " Really. It was just the shock of it, is all. But that's passed. There's more important things to worry about right now. Like what our next move should be."

We were silent. Overwhelmed. The Statue's next appearance was supposed to be May 17th, only three days away. It was too much, too soon. I didn't think I could've prepared myself for a repeat of last night even if I had three years time. And I was sure everyone else felt the same. But then what? Was it over?

"I think..." The words began to die in my throat, but now everyone had their full attention upon me, so I forced myself to continue, "I think we should go to someone. An adult."

Again no one spoke. Clive finally shifted in his seat, his brow knitting in thought.

"Who?" His tone was gentle, "Who do we trust?"

"We could go to Scotland Yard," Gemma suggested.

"Why would they believe us?" Bernard cut in, his voice low, "We don't have any concrete evidence and they're not likely to accept some story about a statue that springs to life with puppets and fire at her beck and call."

"Not true," Gemma said, "Erm, the rotunda? Isn't it a bit barbequed now?"

Bernard shook his head.

"Clive and I scoped the place out earlier. It looks the same as always. No damage to the floor or the ceiling, just as I suspected. Not even a whiff of smoke. Like it never happened."

"Your parents, Gemma?" I tried, "Or my granddad. I know he would believe me."

I didn't bother mentioning Bernard's dad and I still had no idea who Clive's guardian was.

Bernard's brow furrowed in frustration, Clive's eyes slid to his untouched sandwich, and Gemma looked doubtful.

"I don't know," she said, "I love them and all, but I really don't know. If anything, they'd pull me from the school."

I let myself think for a moment what would happen if I told my granddad everything. I had no doubts that he would believe me and the thought gave me immeasurable comfort. But what could he really do? Inform the police himself? Demand that Rosen reveal to the entire school what was occurring? If he knew what had happened last night, he'd probably think Dreycott wasn't safe and want me to come home. My parents would concur and I couldn't really blame them for that. If I did leave, though, that would be the end of it. The Patrol would continue its bullying, the Statue would keep luring new victims, and Professor Rosen would remain in her office, inscrutable and ineffective to the end, all the while Dreycott's countless mysteries, the spiders, the letters, the teachers, the puzzles, the legends, the passages, all of it, would remain unsolved. Perhaps forever. But was that really such a bad thing if we only ever got hurt trying to uncover them?

I reached to tug at one of my braids. The Statue's appearance had changed nothing. I was just as conflicted as before.

"I think it's best if we keep this to ourselves for now," Clive said, breaking through my thoughts, "Until we've gathered more clues about what's really going on."

I rubbed my temple, a welt of frustration starting to chafe inside me.

"So, then, we _do_ try to confront the Statue by ourselves again? Is that what you want?"

"We still have a few days. If we're able to gather more information–"

"That is what you want. You would really try to go through with it again?"

An edge of desperation had crept into my voice all on its own. Clive bit his lip, looking contrite.

"What I meant was–"

"That is exactly what you meant, don't deny it," Bernard put in, " You'd fall into its trap all over again? How could you be so stupid?"

"The Statue said six different people would encounter it this term," Clive said, "Amelia and I were the first two. That leaves four others. We won't be the targets next time."

"You're so sure about that?" Bernard asked, "Has it occurred to you that maybe the reason we were targeted in the first place is that whoever's behind this statue nonsense is on to us? That someone knows what we're up to?"

" _Guys_..." Gemma was looking uneasily from Bernard to Clive.

"Of course it's occurred to me," Clive snapped, "It means we might finally be getting somewhere."

"So almost being burnt alive is getting somewhere?" I interjected before I could stop myself.

Clive, Gemma, and Bernard stared at me in surprise. I lowered my voice, glancing about, my face suddenly burning. Thankfully, the dining hall was starting to clear out now, the nearby tables nearly empty.

"Sorry," I said, "But Clive, this is even bigger than we thought. We don't know what or who we're dealing with. I can't–we can't go through last night again."

Clive opened his mouth to say something, but the only thing he could convey was a pained expression.

"You're right," he said, "Of course you're right. But we can't let last night happen to anyone else, either. I– _we_ have to keep going. We have to get to the bottom of this or else..." Clive trailed away, before starting up again, "But I won't make the same mistakes as last time. This time...this time we'll come up with a plan together."

"Okay, then," Bernard said, "Here's a plan we haven't considered. We could drop the matter and let Rosen's investigator do his job."

Clive sighed in frustration.

"Did Rosen really hire a private investigator?" he asked, "Or did she only say that to throw Professor Xander off her trail?"

"We can't quit, Bernard," Gemma said suddenly, banging a fist on the table, "Clive's right, we _are_ getting somewhere! And I know we have a chance of stopping this thing! We just can't let ourselves be intimidated!"

"A reporter, a chess prodigy, an actress, and a psychologist," Clive said. For the first time since we'd sat down, he cocked a faint smile. "What if we have the best chance?"

"But we're not any of those things," Bernard protested, "Not really."

"Maybe we should take things one day at a time?" I piped up. It wasn't my usual strategy, in the game or in general, but this was a unique situation, a delicate one, "We do have a few leads we can investigate. Maybe following them will give us a better idea of what we should do."

"I'm game for that," Gemma said. She flashed a smile at Bernard, "What do you say, Berno?"

Bernard gave her a withering look, but I knew, despite his outward reluctance, he was not going to drop the mystery we had become embroiled in just like that.

"Suppose I don't have anything better to do with my time," he grunted, "But if we decide to do anything with what we learn, we think of a plan together. One we all agree 100% on. Well, Clive?"

The three of us turned to Clive, but his eyes had lost their focus.

"Hyacinth's death," he murmured, "...Only we knew how..." He automatically reached for his notebook and pen in the pocket of his blazer.

"Clive?" I said.

Clive blinked.

"Sorry, I was just thinking."

"Was she really murdered?" Gemma mused.

"That's what we need to find out."

"The Statue mentioned the eye of Araneae, as well," I said, thinking back to Clive's conversation with Hyacinth, "'The eye of Araneae will reveal the truth.' Isn't that what she said?"

"We don't have much time, so we should pair up and look into both mysteries, the eye and the 'murder'," Clive said.

"A fine idea," Bernard drummed his fingers against the table, "But we've already turned the library inside out. We're at a dead end."

"Not necessarily. I think it's time we hit the pavement, as it were, start questioning anyone who might have answers: teachers, classmates, employees. Even rumors would be helpful at this point."

"We don't want anyone getting suspicious, though," Gemma said, already visibly excited "We'll have to be careful. I call dibs on Araneae's eye. People are already suspicious of me, so it won't seem too strange if I start asking questions about it."

"And I suppose since I'm a patroller, I won't seem as suspicious, either," I said, with a frown. In truth, the idea of going round interrogating people did not suit me at all.

"I'll pair up with Gemma," Clive was flipping through his notebook, looking reenergized, "I'm interested in learning more about this so-called eye myself."

"I guess that leaves Amelia and I to tackle the dubious murder," Bernard grumbled, "Brilliant."

Before I could reply, a voice came from across the room,

"Amy!"

I looked up. Ursula and Juliet were headed in our direction, the former rather grave for once. The two girls stopped right next to the table, Juliet eyeing Bernard and Clive with conspicuous distaste.

"There you are," Ursula said, looking relieved, "We need to go. Right now."

"What? Where?"

"Meeting in the lounge. Super-duper important. The Professor wants to speak with everyone."

I hastily stood.

"We'll talk more later," I said in a low voice.

"Don't have too much fun without us." Gemma grinned.

After handing in my tray, I followed the two girls out of the dining hall.

"You know, you don't have to sit with that _tiresome trio_ anymore," Juliet said, tracing her puckered pout with a tube of glossy pink lipstick, "And when I say tiresome I mean it literally. Did you see those bags under Dove's eyes? It's no wonder he hasn't got a girlfriend. I know you feel sorry for them, but, um, they can keep each other company."

" _Juliet_ ," Ursula hissed, flashing her a look.

" _What_? I'm only thinking of Amelia."

"What's this meeting about?" I asked Ursula suddenly, mainly to stifle a rather unlady-like urge to smack the lipstick clean off Juliet's face.

Ursula's expression turned slightly puzzled.

"Last night, I'm sure."

My stomach tightened. Last night? So the Professor was aware something had happened? Odd. Clive, Bernard, and I had not seen so much as a glint of a silver sash last night during or after the Statue's appearance.

The first thing I noticed when we reached the lounge was the ring of sofas that had been assembled in the middle of the room, occupied by every patroller at Dreycott. To one side sat Felix's group, clinging close to their leader like barnacles on a ship. Smug barnacles. Two of the newest patrollers has already defected to his gang. The rest of the patrollers sat on the other side of the circle in looser formation, their eyes directed towards the high-backed chair at the circle's head where Professor Rosen sat, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, looking as calm and composed as ever. It was always strange seeing her outside of her office. The last time I had seen her anywhere else was during the play last term.

Vivian sat on the sofa closest to the Professor, stiff and straight, hands folded and legs crossed in a position identical to her superior. She rolled her eyes when she saw the three of us approaching, but didn't say anything as Ursula, Juliet, and I slid into the remaining sofa space.

Ascertaining we were all present, the Professor looked about the circle, her professional smile already in place.

"Good afternoon, everyone. I thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to be here," Rosen sat up even straighter, causing Vivian to do likewise, "I've called this meeting to order to discuss the events of last night. I know everyone has places to be, so I'll cut to the chase. First, about what happened in the boys' dormitories?"

Near Vivian, Trevor blanched and adjusted his spectacles.

"N-nothing much to concern yourself with, Professor. I found some...erm, _ahem_ , mice in my bag, is all."

Rosen's placid smile was unwavering, her hooded eyes betraying no hint of alarm, but I noticed her pinky had begun to tap restlessly against her other hand.

"You found...mice in your bag?"

"Yes, Professor. White ones. They must have escaped from the chemistry lab. And then, well," Trevor's next words were muffled by a nervous cough, "They got loose in the common room. It was quite the uproar. Some of the boys wanted to flatten them, see, but they're school property and so I couldn't allow that. It took us a while to catch them."

"Bloody nightmare," Garret, who only ever spoke out of absolute necessity, put in.

There were a few snickers around the circle. I allowed myself a small smile. Clive and Bernard's distraction, no doubt.

"Are the mice safe?" Lily demanded, giving Trevor a wide-eyed glare, "If you kill a mouse, a thrice mice curse on your family, you know. All your cheese will go black with mold for all time."

"W-we put them back," Trevor stuttered, looking at Lily as though he was wondering whether she or not she was joking.

"Alright, then," the Professor's pinky tapped faster, "I trust that the situation was properly handled. So let us now discuss why everyone felt the need to leave their posts at the same time last night."

Around the circle, everyone gave each other uncomfortable looks. All except Felix's group, who merely smirked and elbowed at one another. Vivian blanched. She stood, smoothing her skirt before bowing her head in the meekest gesture I'd ever seen from her.

"It was my doing, Professor Rosen. I accept full responsibility. I thought we had an emergency situation on our hands."

My initial fear was quickly morphing into confusion. Just what was Vivian talking about?

"I was the one who first discovered it," Trevor said, standing up from his seat beside Vivian.

"Indeed?" Rosen cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

"Yes, Professor. As you know, my route takes me right past the cellar door. I noticed it had been left open, so, naturally, I went down to investigate."

"And what did you find, Trevor?" Rosen asked, but I had a feeling she already knew.

"Someone was down there. A group of someones. The light was too dim to see them clearly, but as soon as they caught sight of me, they broke open the door. You know, the one that leads to the room under the cellar?"

The Professor shifted uneasily at the mention of the rubbish-filled hole where Patrol initiations were carried out.

"Go on."

"Trevor came to me," Vivian continued, "And I gathered everyone I could find to head down into the cellar...to, erm, well, to confront them."

The Professor drew in a long breath.

"Vivian, I admire your tenacity, but if there were indeed intruders in the school a confrontation is only likely to make matters worse."

"I know. That's why I called everyone together. And I was sure they were only pupils," Vivian hesitated, twisting her fingers. I had never seen her so flustered, "I-I was sure they were the ones. The ones behind the Statue."

Murmurs rippled through the circle. Apparently, not everyone had been aware of Vivian's conjecture.

There was a long pause as the Professor studied Vivian and Vivian studied the floor.

"That information is confidential, but... I think it is time I informed all of you."

More murmurs. I knew some of the patrollers must already be in the know, but others looked confused, including Stewart.

"Statue?" He repeated nervously, "Does this have s-something to do with what happened at the play? It does, doesn't it? I mean, right?"

"Yes, Mr. Stewart. Someone at this school has been orchestrating elaborate hoaxes to scare other pupils. Three such hoaxes have occurred thus far, not including what transpired at the play. That is the reason for many of the new rules that have been implemented. The early curfew, the rotunda being placed off-limits..."

"I thought that was because it was being renovated?" One patroller piped up, "What does it got to do with this statue?"

The Professor's frown deepened, her fingers fiddling with the spider pendant that she always wore.

Vivian narrowed her eyes at the patroller who had spoken.

" _Anyhow_ , we're sure it's a rogue group of pupils, right, Professor? A band of miscreants trying to soil Dreycott's honorable name. And I'm sure they have a hideout down in the cellar somewhere. I thought if I got everyone, we could flush them out, but–" She suddenly cut herself off, her complexion going red as her hair.

"You lost them," Felix said with a sneer, "Even when there was nowhere else for them to go, you lost them and got all of us locked down there to boot."

"Whoever they are, they're more conniving then I thought," Vivian replied, her narrowed look of distaste now directed at Felix.

"Vivian."

Everyone's attention returned to the Professor.

"I appreciate your dedication to your role as Head Girl. You take the job very seriously, as you should. But in a situation like what happened last night you should have gone to Mr. Crimp."

Vivian made a face.

Ordinarily, the Patrol was responsible for keeping the school secure and orderly throughout the night. As far as I knew, there were only two adults who remained on school property beyond working hours. The old nurse, Mrs. Fledgle, and Amos Crimp, who apparently lived in a cottage somewhere behind the school. I knew proper patrol protocol demanded we go to either depending on the emergency, but for once I sided with Vivian. Searching for the old groundsman in the middle of the night sounded like a dreadful idea. But that was Dreycott for you. Off-kilter in every respect.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Vivian was still glaring at Felix, "It won't happen again."

"Now," The Professor took a deep breath, "Are you absolutely certain everyone came down to the cellar with you?"

Vivian turned back to the Professor, her brow furrowing.

"The majority of us, anyway."

My stomach began to curdle again.

The Professor's eyes cast a slow arc around the circle, looking at each of us in turn.

"Were any of you _not_ in the cellar during this time?"

We all looked at one another with slight frowns. Surprisingly enough, I found that I did want to speak up. I wanted everyone to know what Bernard, Clive, and I had been through last night. I wanted that weight removed, that fear that we were going to stumble into it all over again shouldered by someone better able to handle it. But the Professor was still too much of an enigma. I couldn't ignore the possibility that she was responsible for the Statue somehow, so I let the chance slip away in silence.

"Very well," the Professor finally said. I could not tell if she was relieved or disturbed that no one had spoken up, "Now, I do not want any of you to worry about what has been going on. A professional has been hired to handle the situation. _However,_ I still will need the help of my most dedicated students." Her smile warmed, but it was directed almost exclusively towards Vivian's side of the circle. "If you do have any information pertaining to who may be behind these vicious pranks, the door to my office is always open." The Professor stood, reaching for a small briefcase resting against her chair, Now, if you'll all excuse me, I have work to attend to there now. Good afternoon."

She gave us all a curt nod before clicking out of the lounge on silver heels that cast imperious echoes. As soon as she was gone, it was as if an invisible thread had been cut, releasing everyone, allowing us all to relax our shoulders and exhale deeply as one.

I immediately noticed Felix's group huddling even closer, talking in low voices, as they cast glares over their shoulders at the rest of us.

Vivian cleared her throat. I turned. She was making motions for us to gather around her.

"Vivian, what's going on?" Stewart asked, mopping beads of sweat from his forehead with his tie. Apart from him (and myself), there was also Trevor, Ursula, Juliet, Archie, Lily, Garret, Greta, and a handful of lower-ranking patrollers loyal to Vivian.

Vivian shot a glance at Felix's group.

"I'm not entirely sure. But believe me, I'm going to find out."

She gave each of us a long stare, just as the Professor had, "In the meantime, whatever you report to the Professor, report to me first. We're a team and we're going to find who's responsible for this no matter what it takes."

"But, Viv, the Prof said she's already hired someone to take care of it," Archie said.

"Bother that private investigator! From what I hear he's a real incompetent, anyway."

"Are you sure it's not a real statue?" Stewart whispered, "What if there really is a curse at Dreycott! I've heard some people talking about it! But–but curses aren't real, right? There's scientific proof, right? Still..."

Interesting. Vivian, herself, had said the school was cursed at the initiation. But that was in reference to Araneae's missing eye. From what Hyacinth had said, the two, statue and eye, were somehow linked. Did Vivian think as much...?

"Don't be daft, Stewart," Trevor said, folding his thick arms, "You heard the Professor. Just someone who likes to play nasty jokes."

"...Nasty jokes...?" Stewart's wide eyes darted to Felix and back.

Vivian put a finger to her lips.

"Not a word. I had a hunch about who the mastermind might be, but now I have a different theory. I'm still looking into both, so keep your eyes and ears open for anything suspicious."

"Shouldn't we involve them, too?" Ursula asked, nodding towards Felix's group, "We're all Patrol, after all. I mean, I know you two are eternal rivals, but we shouldn't let that break us apart."

Vivian rolled her eyes.

"What about the eye?" I asked, my curiosity finally getting the better of me.

Vivian turned to me in suspicion.

"What about it?"

"I was just wondering if there might be a connection between the, er, story of the eye and what's happening now."

"We'll see," Vivian said, turning up her sharp nose, "For now, just stop asking so many questions. It's giving me a headache," She grabbed her bag, "Meeting adjourned. Remember, come to me first if so much as a sneeze seems suspicious to you."

She left as quickly as Professor Rosen, signaling the general dispersion of our group. Everyone looked rather preoccupied as they gathered their things and shuffled off in twos or threes, careful to avoid Felix's own gang which was now sprawled across the entire circle of sofas, laughing and talking freely.

I wasted no time making my own exit, replaying the entire meeting in my mind.

So many questions. Who had been in the cellar last night? And did Vivian really think Felix was responsible for the Statue? She had implied very strongly at it, just as she had implied very strongly that she thought Clive was involved, on a previous occasion. I should have been relieved that she no longer considered him the only suspect, but I felt more unsettled than anything. Felix was bad enough without believing he could orchestrate something like the Statue. He did seem to know quite a bit about Clive's past, though.

Anger started to boil within me like a heated kettle, but I did my best to ignore it. _Don't jump to conclusions, you have nothing solid on him yet._

And then there was the Professor. Beneath her calm demeanor had I detected a hint of distraught? She had seemed so upset about everyone leaving their posts, wondering if anyone had not done so...did she know anything about last night's appearance? So many threads to untangle. I had been awake for only a few hours and already I felt exhausted again.

I made my way back to the dorms, showered, and attempted to do a bit of homework. I finished half a chapter in my history book before I gave up and settled in for a nap. By the time I awoke, it was dinner and I found myself traipsing back to the dining hall.

The patrol table was so cleanly divided now that the idea of an invisible wall seperating the two was less a cliché and more an object reality. There was no more banter or jokes between the two sides. Felix's crew kept the jokes to themselves, while Vivian's stewed in silence and whispers. I forced myself to eat as fast as I could, ignoring all conversation and rising as soon as I was finished.

Quietly excusing myself, I immediately started searching for Gemma, Bernard, and Clive, but found only one: Bernard ignoring his meatloaf as he read.

"They already left," he said, as soon as I sat down across from him, "Seemed very keen to get on with their half of the investigation."

"Oh."

Bernard glanced up at me and I quickly tried to mask my disappointment.

"Just give him time, " he said stiffly.

I blinked. How had he known? Bernard was often more insightful than I gave him credit for.

"W-what?"

"Clive. He feels ashamed about last night. That's why he teamed up with Gemma instead of either of us. Makes sense, but it hurts, somehow. I'm... not used to that."

Bernard spoke in his usual cold, methodical manner, but something about his tone seemed different. "Give him time," he repeated.

There was an awkward pause. I knew he was right. Clive had acted similarly reticent after his encounter with Felix had nearly turned into a fist fight. It had taken him awhile to open back up again. I supposed this time it might take even longer. Still, I couldn't help but feel just as Bernard did and this made me more confused than anything.

"Well, what about _our_ half?" I finally asked, wanting to change the subject.

"Hm?"

"Our half of the investigation?"

Bernard closed his book, looking relieved to be able to return to his most comfortable capacity: grumbling.

"I wouldn't even know where to begin. Who in this school could possibly have any information pertaining to a murder that occurred over, what, one hundred years ago?"

I thought a long moment, twisting a strand of hair about my finger.

"Well..."

"Come on, out with it. No matter what, I'll have something critical to say."

"There's Amos Crimp, of course. He's been around here forever."

Bernard closed his eyes.

"No."

"And Ms. Giltwing might have some more information, but she's off until Tuesday."

"Brilliant, back to option one, the lunatic gardener."

I hesitated.

"What about Cathy Cromwell?"

"Who?"

"You know, the Daily Dreycott reporter? I know she was doing a series on Dreycott's secrets or something."

"Oh, you mean that gossip monger. This gets better and better."

I felt a pinch of frustration.

"Well? You've yet to come up with anything."

"Alright," Bernard held up a hand, "You've got me there. Where can we find her?"

"Erm, I think I've seen a sign for the Daily Dreycott on a door near the Red Room."

"Let's meet there at seven tomorrow, unless you have class?"

"Not til nine."

"It's settled then."

I had to smile at his familiar brusqueness.

"Sounds good. I've already finished eating, so I'll let you be."

Bernard looked slightly relieved.

"If you insist."

After returning to my room, I spent the rest of the evening catching up on homework and trying to keep my thoughts from wandering to May 17th. At around seven-thirty, Gemma slipped in and crashed onto my bed.

"What's up?"

Sometimes her unannounced interruptions scraped a nerve and it would only be afterwards that I realized how much I needed the break. This time I welcomed the interruption from the start.

"Boring stuff," I turned my chair around, "How did things go with Clive?"

Gemma propped her head up on her hand.

"We _might_ be on to something. But I don't want to say anything yet," she smirked, " _And_ I managed to get him chatty. I'm good like that."

"You got Clive chatty?"

"Well, started out I told him about what happened to me last night. He doesn't think it very likely Vivian knew about our plan. But he thinks maybe someone else knew and framed me for something to mess with our plan? I dunno. Does that sound far-fetched?"

"Nothing sounds far-fetched at this point."

"Ha! True. Anyway, that got him all wound up and thinking and we had a nice chat about some things."

"What things?" I couldn't help but ask.

Gemma winked.

"Well, he did confide to me a few things about you."

I froze, my eyes widening in horror.

" _Wha_ –"

"Amelia, calm down," I could tell she was holding back a belly laugh, "I'm only teasing!"

"Oh."

"He told me he's looking forward to summer. Being home. Me too," she sighed, "Hey, you know, we should do something fun. We never do anything fun."

"There's nothing to do here."

"Maybe we can put more mice in Trevor's bag?"

I cracked a smile.

"Clive told you about that?"

"Did he tell you?"

"No, actually–" I started, "That reminds me. You have to hear what happened during the Patrol meeting."

Gemma sat up, suddenly attentive and I quickly filled her in on the latest goings-ons.

"Hmmmm," she said, once I had finished, "You really think Felix could be behind the Statue?"

"Now that I've had a bit of time to think about it, it doesn't sound too likely. I mean, he was locked in the cellar when the Statue appeared, along with everyone else."

"Yeah...but do you think that's a coincidence? All of the Patrol getting locked in the cellar right around the time the Statue appears."

"It can't be. You getting dragged off by Vivian can't be a coincidence either. I just can't figure out how it's all connected."

Gemma sighed again.

"My brain's overdue for a holiday."

She stood. "Okay, I'll stop pestering you now. Better get some stuff done myself."

As Gemma reached the door, she paused and looked back with a smile.

"You know, Clive did say one thing to me about you."

"What?" I asked warily.

"It was kind of sweet, actually. He told me he likes playing chess with you, just so you can kick his sorry butt."

I lobbed a paperback at her right as she ducked out of the room, cackling.

The next day, May 16th, I woke up bright and early, mind buzzing with an energy that made me feel both starved for a challenge and dizzy with nerves. It was hard to believe that the Statue was supposed to appear again tomorrow. What were we going to do? Even if we did find any leads, would it matter? I shook these thoughts from my head as I gathered my things and headed down the stairs. One step at a time.

Bernard had not yet arrived by the time I reached the Red Room, so I decided to check my post while I waited.

The Red Room was a common room open to all pupils that offered a more relaxed atmosphere for studying compared to the library. The name came from the furnishings, from the overstuffed sofas to the faded oriental rugs to the paintings on the walls, all in scarlet and ruby brushstrokes. Odd, seeing as Dreycott's colors were blue and silver, but the idiosyncrasy of it all matched well with the school's overall hodgepodge of styles. The room had a small cafe set up in one corner, run by a handful of upper-years and kept afloat by a steady stream of pupils and teachers alike couldn't live without their tea and coffee.

Postboxes were also located in the Red Room. Painted burgundy, they covered an entire wall at the far end of the room. I slipped my key into the lock of my box and pulled out a single letter.

This was typical. My parents, my grandad, and one or two old acquaintances were all who ever wrote to me, which suited me fine.

I smiled as I sat down at one of the room's tables near a window with a cup of tea. From the squiggly handwriting, I immediately knew the letter was from my granddad.

I tore open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet. Odd. Usually, granddad stuffed his envelopes to the limit with all of his ramblings and anecdotes.

I took a sip and started in on the letter.

 _Dearest Amelia,_

 _I received your letter. I'm glad your third term is going well so far and even though I know you still have worries on your mind, just think. In only a few weeks, you'll be home for the summer. I apologise that this letter is so brief, but I've taken ill and am rather tired and achy at present. Now, don't think you have to add me to your list of worries. I go to the doctor later this week. I'll be back to my normal self soon and will write you the longest, most boring letter you could ever imagine. For now, stay well and enjoy the time spent learning and with friends._

 _Love,_

 _Granddad_

Despite the nonchalant tone of the letter, I felt a stab of cold dread sinking into my chest. If he was too tired to write, then I knew he must be feeling very ill, indeed. And he had finally decided to go to the doctor's. Before, he had told me there was no need.

I took a deep breath, refolding the letter. _It's alright_ , I told myself, _everyone gets sick every once in a while_. I repeated this to myself as I waited for Bernard. He finally showed up ten minutes late, looking sluggish and drained.

After ordering a coffee, he sunk into the seat across from me, hands wrapped around his mug. The steam wafting off the top indicated a fittingly strong and bitter brew.

"How are you?" I asked.

"So wonderful, can't you tell?" He took a tentative sip, "But look at you, I can already tell _you're_ a morning person and that means I have to be extra insufferable. I apologize in advance."

I pulled my notebook from my bag.

"Apology accepted. Now, I was thinking we could go over what we're going to ask Cathy before we track her down. That way we can keep things as short and to the point as possible."

Bernard took a longer draught of coffee.

"Good."

"So..." I tapped a freshly sharpened pencil against my notebook. "Do you think a direct approach is best? Should we just ask her if she knows anything about Hyacinth's death?"

"Yes, a direct approach is always best. Do you know how much time people would free up if every conversation went straight to the point? I'm sure most wouldn't know what to do with themselves."

Bernard was waking up, which gave me some assurance. Asking around for information was not an activity I relished, especially when the person in question was Cathy Cromwell. I didn't actually know that much about her, but the way she had acted after the battle of wits last term made me think she was rather full of herself. Perhaps that was a good thing...maybe she would spill information just for the sake of hearing herself talk.

"Good. So we'll just be confident and march straight up to her and ask her what we want to know. Politely, of course. But firmly."

Bernard raised his heavy eyebrows at me.

"You've never done this before, have you?"

"Of course not. How many unsolved murders have you had to ask about?"

"I meant you're not used to going to other people for help. I know the feeling. But never mind that, let's get this over with."

Leaving our half-finished drinks behind to guard our table, we headed out of the Red Room and down the hall to a door marked "Daily Dreycott".

I knocked. There was no reply.

"Just open it," Bernard said.

I did so and the door swung freely, revealing a darkened space beyond.

"H-hello?"

I stepped past the threshold. The light of the hallway allowed me to discern that the room was no bigger than a utility closet but crammed to the walls with numerous filing cabinets, a rusted sink, and a desk, from under which came a faint red glow. Photographs pegged to string were strung across the ceiling like a festive banner and framed newspapers hung on any uncovered wall space. I stepped closer to one and squinted. It was some political article written by a man named Carson Cromwell. Cathy's father, undoubtedly.

"First-rate operation," Bernard remarked, stepping into the room behind me.

"Haha, aren't you a riot. Just don't let Cathy hear you."

I jumped at the voice.

"Where are you?"

"Under here. Developing photographs."

"...Under where?"

"Hee, hee, made you say underwear."

A girl with a cloud of hair and full grin peeped from behind the desk

"Hullo."

"Kate?"

"That would be me. Oi, mind closing that door?"

Bernard complied, shutting us in the dark, cramped room.

"You're developing photographs... under that desk," I said.

"Yup. I have everything I need. Enlarger, chemicals, running water, some grape juice and biscuits. It is a little cramped, though."

There was a slight splashing sound.

"And there go the biscuits."

"Uh, we don't mean to bother you, but have you seen, er, Cathy anywhere, Kate?"

"I hope I haven't. If she knew I was doing this under here again she'd murder me."

From behind us came a rusty squeak. Right as we turned, the door slammed open and Cathy strode in with an armful of paper rolls which she promptly dumped in Bernard's arms without a second glance.

"Desk, please."

"What?"

Cathy reached up and pulled a dangling switch. With a faint buzz, an overhead light flickered to life.

"If you're going to snoop in my office, the least you can do is help me when you're caught."

As she spoke, she smoothed her dark chocolate hair, cut in an angled bob that grazed her jawline. She towered almost two feet taller than Bernard.

"We're not snooping," I said, as Bernard dropped the rolls down on the desk, muttering under his breath.

Cathy had turned to the filing cabinets and was now opening the metal drawers and shutting them loudly, pulling out a file here, a newspaper clipping there.

"Why else would you be lurking in here with the lights off?" she scanned a document, "And where is that _feckless_ photographer of mine...?"

There was a gasp and a thump that rattled the desk followed by a small,

"Ow."

Cathy rolled her eyes as she turned from the filing cabinets.

"Don't tell me. Kate, we've talked about this."

Kate scrambled up from the floor, dusting herself off and saluting.

"Sorry, boss, last time I did it in the loo, Vivian came and confiscated all my negatives."

Cathy knew all of this no doubt, but Kate seemed to be telling it for the benefit of Bernard and I. She winked at us.

"They were photographs from the match with Riverdale. When ol' Pesterham saw I was snapping shots of _her Archie_ she nearly flipped. He's our star player! What does she expect?"

Cathy sank down into the swivel chair behind the desk, rubbing her temples.

"Speaking of Chesterham, I heard there was some sort of top secret meeting yesterday. Recon, Kate. And don't come back until you have something juicy."

"Fine," Kate huffed, shouldering a camera bag. She trudged past us, shutting the door behind her.

Cathy started tapping away at a very new, very expensive-looking, typewriter without another glance at us. I looked to Bernard. He only shrugged, so I stepped forward and cleared my throat.

"Let me guess," Cathy said, still typing, "You were trying to find the Red Room and got lost. I swear, no one in this school has any sense of direction. The other day, Mr. Porter stumbled in here and nearly knocked one of the filing cabinets over. He apologized profusely for fifteen minutes until he realized I wasn't our illustrious headmistress."

"Actually, we have a question to ask you," I said, trying to make my voice sound as brisk as hers.

Cathy finally looked up and blinked, seeming to process who I was. Her gaze immediately went to the silver sash I was wearing, a gleam in her eyes.

"Well, well. Not very often I get one of Rosen's in here." She offered us a smile, "Have a seat, both of you."

We glanced around the room. There were no other chairs.

"Er, we'll stand," I said.

"Amelia Ruth," Cathy studied me as she spoke, her pen dangling between long fingers, "The biggest shakeup in Patrol history since Andrew Fisher was hospitalized."

"Shakeup?" The word came out of its own accord. Bernard elbowed me, but it was too late. Cathy's smile returned.

"Quiet student targeted by the Patrol on her very first day suddenly and inexplicably finds herself climbing the ranks to Rosen's innermost circle in a matter of months. All this, despite the fact your family provides no endowments to the school. I would call it nothing short of a miracle."

"How–" I managed, but Cathy quickly cut me off.

"I'm observant. This school's business is my business. I know everything and everyone. For example," she gestured at Bernard, "I know for a fact you and Dove were behind that little mouse mishap in the boys dorms. _Very_ cute."

"If you know so much, how is it you didn't realize why we're here?" Bernard said, folding his arms.

"I'm working on it. But I'd guess it has something to do with that top secret meeting I'm dying to know more about." Cathy tapped her pen against her desk and continued to herself, "What I can't understand is _why_ you came to Dreycott in the first place. From what I've gathered from my sources, your family barely makes ends meet. Not really Dreycott material." She looked up, "No offense. You see, I'm not really Dreycott material, either."

Despite her assurance, I could feel heat rising on my cheeks. Before I could say anything, however, Bernard piped up.

"You admit you don't know why Amelia decided to attend Dreycott. So you would render your previous statement invalid?" Bernard shook his head, "I guess you're not observant as all that."

"Ouch," Cathy winked at Bernard, "What I don't know, I find out, shortstuff."

"Insulting my height, how very highbrow of you."

"You're not very good at hiding your distaste for people, are you?"

"Frankly, I don't see why I should hide it. When people know they annoy me, they tend to leave me alone."

"My, you are the life of the party."

"Wrong again. I'm the death of parties. Where _do_ you get your shoddy facts?"

"We're interested in the Dreycotts," I cut in before Cathy could shoot something back.

She paused.

"Oh?"

"We want to know more about Hyacinth and how she died. Have you heard of her?"

Cathy closed her eyes, settling back into her chair,

"You've come to the right place. I've delved into the school's history extensively. And I have access to resources others here don't."

She opened her eyes and they flitted to the framed newspaper articles. When they snapped back in our direction, there was a hard glint to them.

"Do you know how she died?"

" _Tsk, tsk_. First rule of journalism. Information always has a price."

I sighed.

"I suppose you want to know what we talked about during the meeting yesterday."

"That really is _so_ tempting, but right now I have a bigger concern you may be able to help me with," She put a hand to her chin, "There's something I've been meaning to ask your friend, Clive."

"Clive?" I hoped Cathy wouldn't catch the hint of discomfort in my tone, but I should have known better. She waved a dismissive hand.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not trying to steal him away from you, if that's what you think."

"W-what!?" I stammered, my face flashing even hotter.

Cathy seemed slightly amused by my embarrassment.

"I told you I'm observant. Anyway, my interest in him is strictly business. _However_ , I do find that some boys respond rather well to a good buttering. Unfortunately, it hasn't had much of an effect. Pity. I wrote that lovely article on him and everything."

I knew the one she was talking about. It was a lengthy piece she had written after the battle of wits, gushing over Clive's triumph and its ramifications for the school in the most flowery of terms. The four of us had had a good laugh over it and I was almost relieved to hear she had ulterior motives for writing it.

"What do you want?" I managed.

Cathy held up a finger and stood. She opened one of the filing cabinets and began rifling through a deep drawer. After a minute of intense searching, she plucked out a weathered rectangle of paper from a folder. I squinted at it. It looked to be some sort of newspaper article, yellow and creased with age. She sat back down and smoothly slipped the article into an envelope.

"This piece of information, small but _very_ valueable, for your help in persuading Clive to accept a deal I wish to make with him."

"What sort of deal?" Bernard asked suspiciously.

"You'll see," Cathy replied.

"You're not going to tell us?"

"Not unless _you_ tell me why you're so desperate for information on Hyacinth."

"Hmph."

I didn't like it, but I suppose she had a point.

"I'll... see what I can do."

Cathy slid the envelope over to me.

"If the deal does fall through, then I might just come looking for more information. Patrol information."

I took the envelope.

"Thank you," I said, stiffly.

"Anytime. Ta-ta."

As Cathy resumed her work, Bernard and I swiftly exited the office and returned to our former table in the Red Room.

"What an insufferable person," Bernard said, pushing aside his coffee which had since cooled, "Was it worth it?

"We'll find out," I replied, opening the envelope.

I pulled out the article. Together the two of us bent our heads over the small scrap and silently began to read:

 _What was meant to be the celebration of a young and notable life turned into a tragedy yesterday at the Dreycott School for Gifted Pupils. After being reported missing during a garden party held in honour of her sixteenth birthday, Hyacinth Dreycott, daughter of millionaire philanthropist, Sydney Dreycott, was discovered unconscious in the open well located on school property. Attempts to revive Dreycott were unsuccessful, leading to the young heiress being pronounced dead at the scene._

 _All party guests were detained for most of the day as police investigated whether or not foul play may have been involved. Inspector Bates, the officer in charge of the investigation, says it is unlikely._

 _"That well should have been sealed up ages ago. It's just a blooming shame something like this had to happen in order for it to finally be done."_

 _The tragedy comes on the heels of a number of scandals that have tarnished the reputation Dreycott family in recent years, including several lawsuits and suspected, albeit unverified, links to the Blue Aster, an elusive crime syndicate._

 _Mr. Dreycott was not available for comment, but his spokesman Mr. Crimp stated that Dreycott School will likely close for a time as the family, heavily involved in the school's day-to-day functioning, recovers from the sudden loss of their daughter._

 _Information regarding_

The rest of the article was cut off.

Bernard and I looked up at each other.

"Drowned," he said, "In the well now connected to the fountain, if Amos Crimp is to be believed."

"Crimp...Mr. Crimp...Tell me that's not a coincidence."

For some reason, the mention of the name had surprised me even more than Hyacinth's manner of death.

"It can't be," Bernard grumbled, "Now I suppose we really will have to talk with the old bean."

"Do you really think it was an accident?"

"It's impossible to say at this point. But you have to admit it is suspicious."

"Yes. If she was a little girl, maybe I could see it. But a teenager, especially one familiar with the school, would know better than to go poking around a deep well."

Bernard glanced at the clock.

"We've still got a bit of time. I suppose we could try locating Mr. Crimp?"

"Yes, let's."

Though neither of us had too high an opinion of her, Cathy had certainly delivered on her side of the exchange. I couldn't help but feel we were on the cusp of something big. Unfortunately, the old groundsman was nowhere in sight when we finally exited the school through a side entrance and stepped out on the gravel path that wound through the entire lawn.

"Now what?" Bernard said, "I'm not traipsing a mile just to find someone who probably won't even talk with us."

Before I could reply, something down the path caught my eye. A dark, slender figure gazing up into a crooked poplar.

"Oh! That's Lily...I wonder what she's doing?"

"Beats me."

"We should ask her about Hyacinth!"

Bernard gave me a funny look.

"What? Why?"

"She seems to know a lot about the school's legends. At least, she knew the whole Araneae story. We should ask her."

Bernard sighed.

"I suppose that would be slightly less torturous than trying to track down Amos Crimp."

"Come on."

We headed down the path together. By the time we reached Lily, she was still peering up into the tree muttering softly, frail hands placed against the bark and long raven hair fluttering about her like a cloak.

"Lily?" I said, suddenly wanting to turn right around.

"Shh!"

Lily pointed up into the tree. A small black kitten was perched in one of the highest branches, glaring down at us with stoic, yellow eyes.

"It's feral," Lily explained, "I've been trying to gain his trust, but the silly thing thought he had to climb up there. If you listen you can hear him growling. Damning us in the ancient feline tongue of Bast."

Bernard gave me a look that said he'd changed his mind about Lily being better than Mr. Crimp.

"I'm sorry about...that," I said to Lily, "Er, do you think we could ask you something while you're waiting for him to come down?"

Lily shook her head.

"Bring me something meaty to coax it and you can ask me whatever you like."

I looked to Bernard. He groaned.

"Fine. Whatever. Let's save the cat that probably has mange and rabies and every other..."

His words faded into choice mumblings as he stalked away. Nearly ten minutes later he returned with a slice of bacon taken from breakfast. Lily snatched it from his hand and held it aloft to the kitten. For the next several minutes we watched it slowly pick its way down from the tree, until Lily snatched it up by the scruff of its neck and gently set it on the ground with the bacon. The little thing ate it in one wolfish bite, shot a hiss at Lily, and darted into the overgrown bushes.

"Ungrateful little beast." Lily pulled a piece of taffy from her pocket and began gnawing on it as she scanned the undergrowth.

"Lily, I wondered, I mean, what we wanted to ask you–do you know anything about Hyacinth? The girl the Statue is, erm, based off of?"

Lily gave me a pale smile.

"The Professor's little talk has you spooked?"

"Maybe," I said vaguely.

"What do you know?"

"Only that she drowned and it was supposed to be an accident."

Lily began to roll her taffy between her fingers.

"She did drown. In that dark, deep well. But it was no accident. She was lured by Araneae from down in the depths beneath London. They say she sings like a siren."

"Don't tell me you actually believe in some kind of cryptid living under the school?" Bernard said. I held back a groan.

Lily gave him a disdainful look.

"She wasn't always so. She was a beautiful woman once. Young, but intelligent beyond her years. Then an ancient experiment went wrong, a curse sprung, and her heart was turned black as soot."

Bernard wasn't impressed.

"What does that have to do with what I asked? And you know what, the name _Araneae_...it's not even a real name. It's the scientific order that spiders belong to."

"What is a real name?" Lily asked, glaring at him, "Is _Bernard_ a real name?"

"Of course. It's Germanic in origin and it means bear-hardy or strong as a bear."

" _A_ _bear._ Fitting!"

I elbowed Bernard before he could respond. I found their exchange more amusing than anything, but I didn't think his blunt line of questioning was going to get us anywhere with Lily.

"Lily, how do you know so much about Araneae? Where do you get your information?"

Lily continued to shape the taffy as she considered the question.

"Rumors and whisperings and... puzzles," She glanced about, "In the school. They hide so many secrets. I've solved some of them. That's the duty of the Patrol, isn't it? To find the eye." Her own roving eyes focused in on me, "You should give us the rod, Amelia."

"The rod?"

"The one you found in the walls behind the lounge. It will lead to more puzzles."

"Oh, that's wonderful," Bernard groused.

Lily held up her taffy. Somehow she had sculpted it into a little, frowning cat.

"I should go now," She began to drift off, then paused, her eyes round and unblinking, "Next time you have a question you'll have to pay for it. One bag of sweets should do. But...I will give you something to start you on your way. If you want to know more about Hyacinth, you should visit her room. She and her father and brothers lived at the school, you know. On the fourth floor. There's her grave, too. But that's clear across London."

With that, she wandered off down the path, humming to herself, until she vanished among the trees.

"Well. That's something," I said, "Hyacinth's room? The fourth floor is so large. How are we supposed to find it?"

"Let's talk to Clive at lunch and see what he says," Bernard replied, "I've had enough investigating for one day."

Unfortunately, Clive was not at lunch or dinner, nor was Gemma. Back in the dorms that evening, I waited for her to make an appearance, but she never popped in and when I checked her room right before curfew she was still out.

I went to bed that night with vague forebodings. Tomorrow night the Statue would appear again and we had nothing more than a handful of leads. I yawned as I settled deeper into my pillow. I still needed to write grandad, too. Surely, he was feeling better by now...this soothing thought swallowed the more ominous ones and carried me into a gentle sleep, one that was broken, too fast, too soon by the sound of my name.

"Amelia!"

"Hmm?"

My eyes fluttered blearily. Gemma was standing over me, shaking my shoulder. A peculiar coldness crept over me. Hadn't this already happened?

"Amelia!"

"W-wha–?"

"Amelia, you've got to wake up. It's happened."

"Happened?"

Her next words drove through me like a stake through a vampire's heart.

"The Statue. It's already appeared again."


	20. Chapter Twenty

_**The Story So Far. . .**_

 _Following the encounter with the Sentient Statue, the group decides to split up and investigate further both Hyacinth's death and the eye of Araneae, an important piece of school lore. Amelia and Bernard discover that Hyacinth drowned in the well located on school property and that she and her family may have lived on the school's fourth floor. The morning of May 17th, Gemma wakes Amelia to tell her that the Statue has already struck again. . ._

 **Chapter Twenty**

The last place I expected to find myself that morning was an infirmary full of swooning female classmates, but there I was, less than a quarter of an hour after Gemma woke me, standing at the edge of a crowd of girls suffocating a certain football captain as he lay in a cot, his right leg in a cast.

"This is hell," Bernard said beside me, with his usual decorum.

He and Clive had already been at the scene when Gemma and I had arrived, waiting for the crowd to disperse. So far, it had only done the opposite, girls pressing closer about the cot, as two new visitors squeezed past us, giggling and clutching get-well cards. Archie, the captain in question, seemed to be in somewhat of a daze as he answered questions and accepted cards, but his grogginess only seemed to drive the fervor of his admirers.

"Thank you, it's lovely," he said, looking over the latest card that had been shoved in his hand, "Lots of...er..."

He shook the card and it shed a cloud of sparkles.

"Glitter?" The maker of the card chirped, blushing like an overripe strawberry, "I wanted to use lots and lots of it, because, well, it reminds me of your eyes."

"Thank you," Archie replied, scratching his chin thoughtfully, "I never thought of my eyes being glittery before...that's a good thing, right?"

As the girls burst into a chorus of twittering laughter, Bernard made a show of rubbing his throbbing brow, a low growl of a sigh escaping his throat.

"We're not leaving until we talk to him," Clive said, glancing at Bernard. He'd already taken his ever-present notebook and pen from his bag and was now tapping the one against the other as he leant against the windowsill.

"What about Juliet?" I asked, "Where did she go?"

"I've heard she's shut herself in her room and won't let anyone in. Not even Ursula," Gemma replied, watching with amusement as the two newcomers paled and clutched their hearts at the sight of Archie's leg. "She's a regular brat, but I still feel bad for her."

One of the girls suddenly whipped out a marker and began looping her name in fancy script across Archie's cast, which immediately caught the attention of the others, who all started clamoring for a turn.

"Oh-ho, this is priceless," Gemma snickered, "Wait 'til Vivian sees."

Her words proved to be prophetic, as, just then, Vivian barged into the room, looking pale and frazzled.

"Where is he!?"

Her eyes widened at the gathering of girls, who had all turned to gawk at her. Storming past us, she shoved every one of them aside until she reached the bedside of her boyfriend, covering her mouth at the sight of his broken leg.

"Why am I always the last to know things?" she said in a wobbly voice.

"Viv, it's alright. It'll be good as new in a few weeks," Archie said, with a lopsided shrug.

"It is _not_ alright!" Vivian stamped her foot causing several of the girls to jump back, "First off, what were you and Juliet doing together in the rotunda at five in the morning!?"

"Her watch was over and she didn't want to walk back to the dorms by herself. We cut through the rotunda to avoid some of Felix's gang."

"And then you saw it!?"

"Saw something...I dunno. The lights went out and everything started shaking and..." Archie rubbed his forehead, wincing at the memory, "Next thing I knew, I was in the back of an ambulance." He shrugged again, "Now I'm back. At least the season's already over."

" _At least the season's already over_!? Is that _really_ all you can think about!?"

Vivian pushed back hair that was already pulled tight by her ponytail.

"I don't believe is–this is–I'm going to–"

She turned and stalked past us again, muttering to herself, fists swinging rigidly at her sides.

Archie sighed and sank back into his pillow, shutting his eyes.

There was a loud clap as the resident nurse, Mrs. Fledgle reentered the room. She was old, but solidly built with a face like granite and arms that looked like they could pulverize bricks. Her starched frock was as white as her hair. Both reflected the rather sterile severity of her dominion.

"Girls, let Mr. Blaze rest now."

"Yes, Mrs. Fledgle," the girls muttered as they began to file out the door. As they dispersed, one of them broke from the crowd. It was Madge, wearing bright green parrot earrings and an eager smile today.

"Amelia!" She waved a yellow flyer in the air.

"Oh! Hello, Madge. What's that?"

"See for yourself."

I knew what it was before she had even handed it to me. My eyes skimmed quickly over the words, catching _Blackburne_ _Junior Chess Tournament, Winbrey Hall, July 28th, scholarship_ , _last chance to sign up_.

"Oh." It was all I could manage. Shelby and Madge had been badgering me about the tournament ever since they'd first brought up the subject near the beginning of the school year, but I'd always managed to evade giving a definitive answer.

"You should really, really, _really_ talk to Mr. Grambler about signing up. We're getting down to the wire. There probably won't even be a chess club next year, Amelia," Madge clasped her hands together, "You may be the best player at Dreycott...ever. It would mean a lot to us. Especially Shelby. He already has his heart set on marrying you, you know. He says you two could be the chess power couple of the century."

"That's...lovely," I said, wondering how that was supposed to help persuade me, "Erm, I'll think about it, okay?"

It was the answer I always gave, one that was little more than a lie. This time it came out sounding even more annoyed than usual. There was too much going on to humor Madge for even a second. Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice my tone.

"Thank you, Amelia! Thank you!"

She shook her head, however, when I tried handing the flyer back to her.

"Keep it."

" _Ahem._ "

Madge hunched her shoulders, eyes darting towards Mrs. Fledgle

"Whoops, gotta go. See you at club!"

As she dashed from the room, Mrs. Fledgle folded her arms and turned to the four of us with raised eyebrows. Clive took a step forward.

"Please, Mrs. Fledgle. Can we ask him about what happened? We won't be long."

"Friends of his, hm? Fine. You have five minutes, unless he'd rather you leave now."

"Thank you."

As Mrs. Fledge disappeared through a side door into her office, the four of us approached Archie's cot. He had since reopened his eyes, fixing them forlornly on his cast.

"She used to be sweet," he mumbled, "Well, she still is, but now it's more like baby viper kind of sweet."

"Do you feel like talking?" Clive asked, pen and notebook at the ready.

Archie shifted his eyes toward Clive.

"Oh, hello, Dove," he nodded at each of us in turn, "Trewinkle. Ruth. And, ah, you're the–" he caught himself just in time, "I mean, Mudget, right? You wanna know what happened?"

"If you wouldn't mind telling us," Gemma said.

Archie scratched his chin.

"Well...see, the Prof wants me to keep quiet about it until she gets a handle on things."

"Oh, don't worry. We already know all about the Statue!" Gemma replied.

Archie blinked in surprise.

"Oh. Hm. I guess Trewinkle did see it for himself, didn't he?" He sat up a bit straighter, "I'd be happy to tell, then. Talking helps me to know it was real. Still feels like I'm in a dream or something. All happened so fast..."

"Start from the beginning. You and Juliet cut through the rotunda on your way back to the dorms?" Clive asked.

"Yeah. See, we have a bit of a feud going on in the DP. Don't tell Viv I told you. Jules didn't want to run into Felix's gang by herself, so I said I'd walk back with her. We cut through the rotunda to avoid them, but the lights went out."

"And this was around five this morning?"

"Right, right. Anyway, it was dark. Usually is at five in the morning."

"You don't say," muttered Bernard.

"And, er, I stopped because I couldn't see. Then I heard something like really creepy humming. And there she was. On the other side of the room. Don't ask me how I could see her, but it was this ghosty gray girl."

"The Statue?" I asked, although I was already certain of the answer. My own encounter with the eerie stone girl still loomed vividly in my mind. It was funny how calm Archie was, given the circumstances. Then again, he never had been that excitable.

"Probably. I mean, she was kinda far away, but she did look... statuey. Statue-like? Very stiff."

"Did she say anything?" Gemma was nearly trembling with excitement beside me.

"No..." Archie trailed off, his brow scrunched, "Wait. Come to think of it, yeah. She did say something. It was sorta hard to hear her, though, because Juliet was screaming so much. She said something like, erm..." He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating, as he haltingly recited, "'My... strength grows as, er, my binds, or bonds or something, weaken. The round room, the three days...the ninth hour, soon these will...will hold no power over me."

"You're _sure_ that's what she said?" Clive said, writing madly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. Honestly, it was too weird to forget."

I decided not to mention that Archie had only just remembered the Statue's words himself.

"So what happened then?" Gemma asked.

"Then...then everything started shaking. Like an earthquake. And Juliet started screaming louder. Or maybe I just started screaming, too. And then _boom_ , this terrible, nasty pain," Archie shrugged, "And, er, I'm in an ambulance."

"Do you know what happened to your leg?" Clive asked.

"It was a chunk off a column. Got shaken loose or something. Pinned my leg. Not big enough to completely crush it, mind, but it's still bad." Archie laughed uncomfortably, "My parents are livid."

"Wait a minute," Gemma cut in, "So, are you and Juliet afraid of earthquakes?"

Archie swept his long bangs out of his eye.

"Oh, yeah, that whole rumor about the Statue showing you your greatest fear? I guess it is true. I'm not afraid of 'em, but Jules was terrified."

"What _are_ you afraid of, then?" Gemma asked, "Er, I mean–"

"No, no. S'alright. I'll tell you. See, when I was ten one of my mates hurt himself real bad playing rugby. Fell on his arm the wrong way and it got all twisted up. Awful. Sorta scarred me. I was always careful after that. Never had a break myself...'til now that is."

"Thank you, Archie," Clive was still writing, "Anything else you can remember?"

Archie laid back on his pillow.

"That's it. All it took was one chunk of stone and now my leg's broke, my girlfriend hates me, and my parents will probably make sure I'm transferred before the end of term."

"Aw, cheer up!" Gemma said, "At least you have tons of adoring fans! I mean, you're one of the least hated patrollers probably ever!" She patted his shoulder, "That's an accomplishment."

Archie gave her a weary smile.

"You're alright, Mudget. Sorry about the...you know, the rumors," His eyes returned to his leg, "And for the time we locked you in that closet, Dove. And threw you in the rubbish bin. And the time we stole your–"

"Er, it's fine," Clive interrupted, "Just try to get some rest."

Archie bobbed his head as his eyelids fluttered. A moment later, his chin slumped to his chest as a low snore escaped him.

"Let's talk outside," Clive said quietly, to the three of us.

As we turned towards the door, we ran into a broad-shouldered man with a large nose and a tied patterned with Egyptian hieroglyphs. He offered us a broad smile. I recognized him as Donald Porter, the Head of Boy's Boarding and an upper-year history teacher.

"Ah, good morning. I came to see how Mr. Blaze is doing."

"Sleeping now, Mr. Porter," said Mrs. Fledgle, leaning out from her office. I wondered if she had been listening in on our conversation or if she even knew the true cause behind Archie's accident, "These four were just leaving."

"Ah, I see. I'll just have to come back later..." Mr. Porter sighed, straightening his jacket, "Such a shame. Archibald's been such a reliable head boy. He'll be hard to replace."

"Replace?" Clive asked, cocking his head.

"Yes, well. He'll be out of commission for awhile with his leg. And his parents..." Mr. Porter trailed off, coughing, "Let's just say we're already considering candidates."

"Like who?" Gemma asked.

Mr. Porter frowned.

"In the end, it's the Professor's decision. But my pick would have to be Mr. Rimswald. Such a dedicated young man! And very popular among his peers, too," Mr. Porter nodded at us, "Anyway, I should be going. Good day, children."

We said goodbye to him and watched him leave before exiting the room ourselves.

"Felix as head boy!?" Gemma immediately said, once we were down the corridor a ways. "Over Rosen's dead body. She would never allow that. I mean, she's already kicked him out of her inner circle, so it's only a matter of time before he's booted from Patrol, right?"

"I hope so," Clive said, "But you should see what an enormous toady he becomes whenever Mr. Porter is around." He shut his notebook, "Let's worry about that later, though. I have to admit, this caught me completely off guard."

"It's a relief, is what it is," Bernard said, "Now we don't have to make a decision."

"I don't understand it," Gemma said, "Why did she appear so early? And after we spent all that time figuring out her schedule!"

"There's your answer right there," I said, quietly.

"What do you mean?" Clive asked.

I turned to him.

"You heard what Archie said. The Statue told him, 'the round room, the three days, the ninth hour, soon these three will hold no power over me.' What do you think those three things refer to?

"The round room...the rotunda?" Gemma asked.

"And the three days and the ninth hour... The three days we theorized the Statue would appear, three very important days related to Hyacinth," Clive continued, "And the hour of her appearance, right around nine. Everything fit last time the Statue appeared. All our calculating was correct."

"Exactly," I said, "I don't think it's a coincidence that as soon as we figure out when the Statue will appear it announced what it did to Archie."

"So, you're saying it's because of us?" Bernard said, "We thought we had the timing all figured out, so the Statue goes and strikes when we least expect it?"

Clive nodded.

"I think that message _was_ meant for us," he said, "Although, remember, last term the Statue appeared outside of the rotunda, during the play. Even if we hadn't caught on to anything, I think the plan has always been for the Statue's appearances to become more random concerning when and where, more frequent, even...maybe we just helped speed things along."

The thought made my stomach lurch.

"So, it'll get to the point where we have no idea when or where the Statue will appear? Then why have a fixed schedule to begin with? I've always thought it sort of odd. Too convenient."

"I'm not sure," Clive closed his eyes, frustration tightening his features,"I feel like someone is just toying with us from behind the scenes. Allowing us to think we've got it all unraveled and then pulling the rug from out beneath us."

"Why bother?" Bernard said, "Are we really that much of a threat to whoever's behind this?"

"It only makes sense," I said, "Unless you want to believe the Statue really is some sort of supernatural being."

Gemma opened her mouth, but immediately shut it into a grin when she saw Bernard was ready to fly into outrage mode.

"I've had enough of this doom and gloom," she said, "Let's get some breakfast before they shut everything down. I think what this investigation needs is some bacon to fuel it to victory!"

I didn't object and neither did the two boys. If I was honest with myself, I had to agree with Bernard. I was relieved that our decision of whether or not to confront the Statue again had been made for us. But this relief was mingled with apprehension. Hyacinth was still set to appear one more time this term. But when? Or perhaps even more unsettling: where?

My stomach growled in answer. For all my anxiety, I was feeling quite peckish and in that place where even my most troublesome thoughts began to dull until I had something hot and filling inside of me.

I almost didn't get the chance, but, luckily, we made it to the dining hall just in time. The patrol table was already nearly empty, so I didn't even bother with it, joining my friends at a table near the window that framed another fog shrouded day.

As we tucked into bacon and eggs, I noticed that something had caught Clive's attention from across the room, causing him to frown. I followed his gaze to Cathy Cromwell sitting at a far table, watching our own with narrowed eyes, her long fingers drumming the surface.

Clive started fiddling with his tie when he realized I had seen Cathy.

"She's always staring at me," he admitted quietly, embarrassed, "I'm not sure what she wants, but I–well, I think she might fancy me."

Bernard and I glanced at each other with amused expressions.

"What?" said Clive, starting to blush, "That's the only logical explanation I could think of. I–I wish she would just leave me alone."

"No fair!" Gemma said, looking between the three of us with a pout, "I want in on this, whatever it is."

"Sorry," I said, suppressing a small smile at Clive's completely bewildered expression."We talked to her yesterday. I don't she fancies you, not really. She needs your help with something."

"Who!?" Gemma cried, slamming the table.

As if on cue, Cathy stood and started towards our table. Gemma followed our gaze and her expression immediately brightened.

"Aw, Clive. Why didn't you just say so! If you're having lady troubles, I am here for you."

"Wha–!? I'm not having lady troubles!"

We all quieted down and sat up straighter as Cathy neared.

"Am I interrupting anything?" she asked.

"Nope!" Gemma said, a bit too loudly, "Just swapping gossip."

"Mind if I join in?" Cathy hesitated, her eyes flitting to Clive who still looked a bit flustered, "Look... maybe I'd better be blunt about this. That always seems to work best for me."

She suddenly sat down across from Clive, interlacing her fingers on the table before her in a business-like fashion.

"Here's the short of it. I need your help."

Clive blinked.

"You need...my help? Is that why...?"

Cathy smiled thinly.

"Is that why I was being a shameless flirt with you? Yes. I didn't want anyone getting suspicious about my interest in you and I thought it might make you more willing," she shrugged, ignoring Clive's expression, which had turned quite baffled, "No matter. I see now a direct approach is best."

Gemma couldn't contain herself any longer.

"What do you need his help with?"

"It's no secret you have a bit of a reputation here," Cathy continued, "As a rule breaker and someone who knows how to, shall I say, _pry_ valuable information loose from the cracks?"

Clive's eyes shifted off to the side.

"A reputation not entirely deserved."

"I'm aware you're conducting some sort of informal investigation. I'm in the middle of one myself. Unfortunately, I find that I'm not very fit for the more...covert aspects of the job."

I thought back to Cathy's attempt to infiltrate the Patrol initiation and had to agree.

"And you think I am?"

"Correct."

Clive hooded his eyes, clasping a hand to his chin, his initial embarrassment forgotten at the prospect of a challenge.

"I'm listening."

"As you know, June 19th is the Midsummer Masquerade."

Beside me, Gemma's face lit up like fireworks.

"I'd almost forgotten!" she suddenly frowned, "Though I'm still not old enough."

"Wait," I said, feeling a bit stupid, "What is it exactly?"

The name sounded familiar, like I'd heard other girls talking about it, but I often tuned out the more giggly conversations I was privy to.

Cathy rolled her eyes.

"One of the last remaining vestiges of this school's inordinate sense of extravagance."

"For once we agree," Bernard muttered.

"It's the annual school ball," Gemma added, "There's costumes and dancing and food and tons of drama and romantic tension. Like six couples broke up during the ball last year! But it's only for Year 11s and up. Boo."

"But it's not only for pupils," Cathy continued, "Rosen uses the event to show off the school to all its financial backers and benefactors, as well as attract new ones. You know, like flies and honey? Now, I've caught wind of a particularly juicy bit of news concerning this."

We all leaned closer, intrigued.

Cathy smiled again.

"At this time, there are two persons most responsible for keeping Dreycott afloat. The first is Constance Dove."

I glanced to Clive in surprise at the name, but he remained focused on Cathy.

"Go on."

"The second? A businessman named John Harrier."

"John Harrier?"

"Yes. A bit of an enigma of a man. I do know he has a lot of powerful connections and without his financial support this school would find itself in a very bad way. Now, according to my source, the night of the masquerade Mr. Harrier and Professor Rosen are planning on holding a private meeting."

"During the masquerade? Where did you get this information?" Bernard asked.

Cathy narrowed her eyes.

"That's beside the point. All you need to know is that it's reliable."

She turned her attention back to Clive.

"I don't know exactly when or where this meeting will occur, but if my source is correct some very important matters are going to be discussed. It could even decide the fate of the school."

"Dramatic!" Gemma said, "That would sell a lot of newspapers."

Cathy shifted in her seat.

"Er, yes. Yes, it would," The slight catch in her voice made me think she was holding something back, "At any rate, it is essential that I find out what is said at that meeting."

"So," Now it was Clive's turn to drum his fingers against the table, "You want me to find out where and when this meeting is and eavesdrop?"

"Yes, that's about it. Of course, you friends can help you if they like. It doesn't matter to me. As long as I get my information."

"No doubt Rosen will be mingling with hundreds of guests at the ball," Bernard said, "How would we ever find this Mr. Harrier?"

Cathy reached down to dig through her bag.

"Oh, don't worry about that. I've got a picture of him."

She slid a newspaper clipping across to Clive. We crowded closer to see it and drew in a collective breath.

"The Man in the Green Suit," I said.

Even though the black-and-white clipping made it impossible to determine the color of his suit, the face was the same. Non-descript with a vague expression that was difficult to place.

"You know him?" Cathy sounded both surprised and intrigued.

"We know _of_ him." Clive replied, still studying the clipping, "We've seen him a few times about the school. Always speaking with Rosen."

"Yes..."

Clive finally looked up.

"I have to say I'm keen to know more about this meeting myself. But..." He trailed off, eyes shifting to the side once more.

"I would never ask you to do something for free," Cathy replied cooly, "Do this for me and I'll make you a real journalist."

Clive blinked.

"What?"

"For the Daily Dreycott, I mean. You could write about whatever you like," she winked at him, "And of course, my sources would be your sources."

The four of us remained silent as Clive closed his eyes, deep in thought. For some reason, Cathy's idea bothered me, but I didn't want to look too hard into it until I knew what Clive was thinking.

"Do you want me to decide right now?" he finally asked, reopening his eyes.

Cathy stood.

"Of course not. We've still got a few weeks 'til the masquerade. Take your time," She shot me a significant look and I knew she expected me to uphold my end of the deal, to somehow persuade Clive to take her up on her offer. "Ta-ta, now."

With a little wave, she was gone, leaving the four of us to stew over cold bacon.

"You're going to do it, right?" Gemma said, almost immediately, "I mean why the heck not? It's a win-win. We get to learn more about what the Professor is up to and you get to write for the D.D.!"

" _Such_ an honor," Bernard grumbled, "You know, I really don't trust her or her 'source', which is more than likely that scatter-brained photographer of hers."

"What about you, Amelia?" Clive asked, "What do you think?"

I didn't say anything. The fact was, I wasn't comfortable with the idea, but not for the same reason as Bernard.

Since coming to Dreycott I had done many things that I wasn't really proud of. Infiltrating the patrol, lying, listening in, and poking around where I wasn't supposed to. Mostly small things, true, but granddad had always taught me that people were ends, not means, and were to be treated how I would like them to treat me. I had written off these actions as mostly spur-of-the moment decisions, but this– planning ahead to listen in on the private meeting of someone who trusted me enough to invite me into her inner-circle–I wished it wouldn't bother me so, it left me feeling like a stickler, but all I could picture was my granddad and what he would say if he knew. He wouldn't be angry. He rarely got angry. But he might be disappointed and that somehow felt even worse.

Besides, where had all our rule-breaking gotten us in the end? Fights with the patrol, and worse, the terrible heat and clamor of Clive's memory.

"Amelia?" Gemma echoed.

"I-I don't know," I finally said, "It doesn't quite feel right."

"But think of how much we might learn!" she replied, "The mysterious Man in the Green Suit! Finally exposed! You remember the letter he gave to Rosen. He's obviously caught up in it all somehow."

"Not necessarily," Bernard put in.

Clive remained silent. He seemed to be discreetly studying me, waiting for something.

"A part of me wants to do it, of course. But so much we've done, finding those passageways, and breaking the rules to confront the Statue. It all ended badly. And–and there's my granddad..."

Beyond these concrete reasons, there was something deeper, too. Something I wasn't quite sure how to put into words. A sort of pang that felt like an internal warning, reminding me of a line I wasn't supposed to cross.

"I think I understand," Clive said quietly.

"Y-you do?"

"It's the same with my mother."

"Your mother?" Gemma asked, clearly surprised.

"Adopted mother," Clive corrected himself.

"Constance Dove?" I wagered.

"Yes. She knows I've uncovered a mystery here at Dreycott, but not about the Statue."

"Neither does my granddad," I murmured, "I want to tell him, but maybe the real reason I haven't is because... I'm afraid. How he would react if he knew some of the things we've done..."

I blushed, mortified at myself for admitting that out loud. It was a relief, though, to finally put into words what had been floating just under the surface of my mind for so long.

Clive nodded, his eyes losing their focus as he stared at his hands.

"She took me in after...after I lost my parents. The thought of keeping secrets from her, of doing anything that could wedge itself between us..." He sighed heavily, "I'm not the rule-breaker everyone makes me out to be. I've overstepped here and there, but always with good reason." He fiddled with his tie again, "When you're labeled a rebel, it's easiest just to act proud of it, but I don't know if I am."

"You two act like we've committed murder or something," Gemma said, laughing, "We've just done the things you _have_ to do in a proper investigation. Sometimes you've gotta smudge the rules if you want to get somewhere."

"But isn't that exactly what the Patrol does?" I asked, "Smudge the rules to get what they want?"

"It's different," Gemma insisted, "We're the good guys. We're actually trying to help the school."

"You do have a point, Gemma," Clive said, "It's a difficult situation. Things are very wrong at Dreycott. People are getting hurt, facts are being covered up, and we have the potential to expose the truth. But that will mean continuing to overstep and keeping some things secret until we get to that truth."

"But until then, what about your mother? My grandfather? Gemma, your parents?"

It was the same sort of question I had asked the other day. One that refused to let me be.

Both Gemma and Clive lowered their eyes. I had never seen the latter look so conflicted before.

"I'm not sure," he said.

"I'm not sure, either," I replied, suddenly feeling ashamed myself. I hadn't meant to make them guilty. I was only confused and for once voicing those confusions out loud seemed less difficult than trying to keep them inside my head.

"I've already told my dad everything."

We all turned in surprise to Bernard who had, up until then, been listening quietly.

"What did he say?" Gemma asked.

"He didn't listen," Bernard shook his head, "There's nothing he could do anyway. _Listen!_ We've already talked about this. There's nothing any of our parents could do to fix things here. Not really. So either we see this thing through to the bitter end or else we drop it completely. I'm sick of being on the fence about it," Bernard straightened, "And I have no moral quandaries about spying on a woman who runs this school the way Rosen does. I have no quandaries about defying a bunch of bullies. Neither should any of you. I don't trust Cathy, but this could be a turning point for us."

There was a long pause.

"You're right," Clive said, and his composure seemed different. That vulnerable edge had disappeared from his voice, replaced by a more composed, business-like tone, his features hardening with a determination I was only too familiar with now, "I promise we'll get this all sorted out with our parents. But for now, we need to buckle down and do what we can to get to the bottom of this."

 _For now, for now_...that was always his answer, one that created a safe wall that blocked from view any glimpse of the future, how we could potentially fail if we were wrong. "I think when all is said and done, they'll understand."

His words were confident, but the hint of uncertainty in his eyes betrayed him. He smiled faintly, "And I know my mum had her own share of adventures when she went to Dreycott."

"So did granddad," I replied. _But not like ours_.

I rose from the table, shouldering my bag. "I've got to get to class. But...I'm willing to help."

Was it true? Or had I only said it to make myself believe it was? At any rate, Bernard's words had helped to soothe my conscience a bit. If there was a chance that Rosen was involved in a plan that hurt her own pupils, then perhaps eavesdropping could be justified.

"Right," Clive said, "How about we finish our investigations into the murder and eye, then at the end of the week we meet and discuss all our findings? The masquerade is June 19th. And the Statue is supposed to appear June 1st, but that's no longer for sure. In any case, we've got a lot to prepare for."

We each went our separate ways that morning feeling the weight of his words. Yet, as the day progressed, I felt there was so much pressing down upon me that it was almost easier to focus on my classes, simply because of how overwhelming everything was, and how little I could do about it all. I hated that feeling of helplessness more than anything, like accidentally waking a wolf and then, by some twisted dream logic, watching yourself get dragged away in its jaws.

Our advantage over the Statue was gone. And Cathy had turned out to be more crafty than I originally thought. What was she really after? The fact, too, that she had tried manipulating Clive through her interest in him made me queasy. What sort of person did something like that only to brush it off like it was nothing? These questions only further tangled the already conflicted feelings I had about helping Clive complete her request.

There was one thing, however, that I still felt I had some control over and that was the next step in our investigation into Hyacinth's death. If I could make some sense out of that mystery, then perhaps the rest would follow, like a brilliant play that signaled the turning point in a chess match. Bernard and I were both busy that afternoon, but we agreed to meet the next day after lunch in the Red Room once again. From there, we would set out for the fourth floor in hopes of finding Hyacinth's old bedroom.

Unfortunately, yet another delightful surprise already lay in wait for me.

As before, Bernard had not yet arrived by the time I made it to the Red Room, so I checked my post. A single letter from my father was waiting for me. Despite the fact my father was a postmaster in Luxenbelle, he didn't care much for writing letters and usually only sent me brief messages and doodles. This letter, however, was different:

 _Dear Amelia,_

 _Hope all is well in London. I know granddad wrote to you recently and I assume he told you about his illness. I'm not quite sure I know how to tell you this without giving you a shock, so please know beforehand that we are all well here. Only, granddad caught an infection and had to be taken to hospital. Just for a short while as he recieves treatment. He's in very high spirits, you should know, and we go up to see him every day. He'll be out and at it again long before you get home from Dreycott. So please don't worry._

 _Which brings me to the second matter I wanted to write to you about. You know money's been a bit tight for us and with granddad's hospital visit it's only going to get tighter. We've always gotten by and always will, but your mother and I have been talking and we've come to the decision that Dreycott is just not a feasible option any longer._

 _As you know, granddad spent most of his savings on tuition, the rest he used to help us pay-off his doctor bills. I hate to be telling you this. I really do. If there was any other way, Amelia, we'd take it in a heartbeat. But the money just isn't there anymore. You'll be able to finish up this year, of course. I wanted to tell you now so you'd have a chance to tell your friends and say proper goodbyes. I know you've made some good ones there. And I promise we'll make sure you have a chance to see them again in the future._

 _I feel simply terrible breaking all this awful news on you at once, but I knew I couldn't put it off any longer. Please write back and tell me your thoughts._

 _Love, Dad_

Somewhere inside me was a faint voice telling me I should be just as shocked as my dad assumed I would be, but as I read through the letter again, all I felt was a hollow numbness.

Well, this was it. The checkmate of a game I'd been losing since the beginning of term.

I set the letter down on the table, but my eyes remained glued to it.

Of course, I should have been expecting this. Isn't that what I did best? Examine every possible outcome, every feasible move? But this time I had intentionally shut out the idea that my granddad's illness could lead to something worse, only to have it creep through the door anyway. And as if him being hospitalized wasn't bad enough, now I wouldn't even be coming back to Dreycott. I almost had to laugh. Isn't that what I had secretly wanted all along?

I read through the letter a third time, the numbness spreading. All the drama of yesterday morning and now this. Gemma would have made a joke about the capricious nature of the gods or something. But why was I even thinking of jokes? Perhaps all this stress was finally doing a number on my mind.

The small sound of a throat being cleared. I jumped in my chair, my fixed gazed finally broken as I turned to look up into Bernard's heavily-browed eyes.

"Bernard!" Automatically, I jammed the letter back into its envelope, hoping he hadn't caught sight of it.

"You look like you've just swallowed an algebraic expression," he remarked.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly."

"No," I tucked the letter into my bag, "It's just... _déjà vu_ is all."

The Statue appearing again, another heated conversation in the dining hall, and now another letter from home that made it seem as if my legs were slowly sinking into the floor, taking all feeling with them.

"Bernard?"

"Hm?"

I closed my eyes.

"Have you ever felt like you've all the sudden aged 30 years? "

"All the time. Didn't you know? I'm actually 150,000 years old. No wonder I hate everything."

I sighed, then stood, pushing in my chair. There was time enough to let the letter sink in later. The fourth floor awaited. With that resolve, I took a deep breath and swept all thoughts of my father's news to the back of my mind, detaching myself from it until all that remained was the hollow feeling. It was a practice years of chess had honed in me.

"Ready if you are."

"I'm not sure 'ready' is the right word." Bernard said, as we made our way to the nearest stairs. "We've got nothing to go off of, except what Lily told us."

"It isn't much," I admitted, "But we can't let Clive and Gemma get all the good leads."

It was a desperate attempt at a joke, to force myself to remain focused through conversation, but, surprisingly, Bernard smiled.

"Oh, it's a competition now, is it? I suppose I would like seeing that smug grin melt off Clive's face when we show up waving some enormous clue in the air."

I shook my head, chuckling weakly, as we began our ascent up the three flights of steps that would lead us to the fourth floor.

"Sometimes I wonder how you two got to be friends."

Bernard scoffed.

"The idiot needs someone to keep him from getting himself killed. Not that I've had much success."

Silence. I scrambled for something, anything, to keep the talk going.

"Well... if it wasn't for you, Clive and I would probably be burnt to a crisp, so, so don't be _too_ hard on yourself."

"Hmph," Bernard folded his arms,"Yes, well, I still owe him. Maybe that's the real reason I haven't dropped out of this goose chase."

"You owe him?"

Now I was genuinely intrigued.

Bernard paused on the third level landing.

"He listened when I told him about the Statue," Bernard shrugged, "That and he got a black eye on account of me. First day back, too."

I thought back to when I had first arrived at Dreycott and how Clive had stood up for me against Vivian. He had been sporting a black eye at the time and I'd always wondered how he had managed to get it before school had barely even begun.

"Felix's gang had me cornered. You know, wanting to welcome me back with a nice nose-bleed. Clive went right into the fray even though most of them were two times bigger than him." Bernard shook his head, "I thought he must be insane. I still think that. I know a thing or two about the human mind, but what goes through his head when he does stuff like that, I really don't know. But I'm glad he did it. He's looked out for me ever since."

Bernard started up the next flight of stairs, but I noticed his ears were starting to tinge pink. He suddenly looked back at me with a fierce, owlish glare.

"But I swear, if you tell him _any_ of this..."

I smiled.

"Don't worry. I know you have a reputation to maintain."

Bernard didn't reply. We had cleared the last step and now stood before the long fourth floor hallway, which looked as deserted as ever. Sunlight had finally broken through the clouds and fog of the past few days, causing dust motes to shimmer before the grime-speckled windows. Spider-webs weaved across the rafters of the ribbed-ceiling far above. The scent of aging wood, an attic sort of smell, hung thick in the air.

"There used to be more dorms up here," I said, "But before that...the Dreycotts lived here?"

"It's a possibility."

I thought back to the second test that had lead to my becoming a patroller. It had taken place in a derelict looking parlor stuffed with hundreds of keys.

"You know, I think I might know where their parlor used to be. We could start there and then search all the surrounding rooms?"

Bernard gestured forward,

"Lead the way."

We started down the left arm of the hallway, as I tried remembering where exactly the parlor had been located. There were so many doors, it seemed that even if we did find the right room it would still take us hours to track down Hyacinth's bedroom.

Finally, however, I stopped in front of a solid door right where the hallway turned a sharp corner

"I think this is it."

As I reached for the handle, however, I heard something that made me freeze. Muffled voices coming from inside the room.

I twisted my head over my shoulder to Bernard standing stock-still behind me. "Should we–"

Footsteps as the voices grew more distinct. Whoever it was was heading straight for the door.

"Hide," Bernard said.

We spun around. There was nothing, no decor of any sort, to hide behind, so we dashed to the door across from us. Thankfully, it was unlocked, allowing us to slip into a bare room, just as the parlor door opened. Bernard and I huddle near the door's crack in an attempt to see who had emerged.

"That's not what I said."

The testy voice and shockingly ginger hair immediately caught my attention. Felix and a few of his friends were standing in the hallway now. One last patroller exited, locking the door behind him.

"But you told me–"

"Shuttup," Felix suddenly said in a low voice, raising a hand. The four patrollers glanced about the hallway.

"What is it?" one whispered.

My breath caught in my throat as I resisted the urge to stumble back away from the door.

Felix's head cocked to the side as if he were listening for something, then he glanced at his wristwatch.

"Never mind. Let's go."

We waited until their footsteps faded entirely before we risked coming back out.

"Good show we decided to hide," Bernard said, looking about nervously as if he thought Felix might jump from the shadows.

"What do you think they were doing up here?" I walked over to the parlor door and tried the handle, but it was locked tight.

"No idea. You think they went back downstairs?"

"I hope so. Maybe we should wait a few minutes and make sure."

We returned to our hiding spot and allowed five minutes to lapse in silence. Finally, Bernard shook his head.

"We're only wasting time. If we don't start now, we'll never get this done."

"Alright, but let's be careful."

We stepped back out into the empty hallway, the floorboards creaking softly beneath our cautious tread.

"Looks okay," I said, "So...you take the right and I'll take the left?"

Bernard huffed.

"Fine."

With the threat of Felix popping out of nowhere still hanging over us, our afternoon search for the bedroom of a drowned girl at the top of the school commenced. Many of the door were locked and since both of us lacked Clive's "special" skills in this department, we simply had to leave them be, hoping Hyacinth's bedroom wasn't behind one of them. The ones that were unlocked were not very promising at all. The first one I encountered with a handle that actually gave made my heart skip a beat. But when I open the door, I saw that it was almost identical to the room we had hid in. Nothing to see but a low, twisting light fixture hung overhead.

"I found something," Bernard said, when we had reached the middle of the long hallway.

"What?"

I turned, my heart quickening once more until I saw him standing in a doorway, kicking an ashtray.

"Someone's been smoking in here," he said, "The room reeks."

"Who would that be?" I said, peering past him into another disappointingly empty room that smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. A bit of sloppy graffiti marked the walls.

Bernard snorted.

"Probably Felix."

"I suppose all kinds of questionable activity must happen up here," I remarked as we continued on to the next set of doors, "No teachers after all. Not that they ever do much to stop the Patrol, anyway."

"My dad told me something about the fourth floor," Bernard said, jiggling another handle. He scowled when he couldn't get it to budge.

"Your dad?" I repeated cautiously, knowing how sensitive the topic could be.

"He told me not to come up here."

"Because Felix hangs out up here, you think?"

The handle to my own door proved to be just as stubborn.

"I dunno," Bernard shook his head, "Sometimes he'll go for weeks without saying anything much to me and then, 'oh, by the way, Bernard, you've not gone up to the fourth floor, have you? and 'No need to worry, Bernard, this school is old, is all. Easy to believe in ghost stories'."

"So, erm, you really told him everything?"

I found it hard to believe, seeing as I hadn't even told my granddad, the one person I usually told everything.

Bernard nodded as he tried the next door. Locked.

"I wanted to see what kind of reaction I could get. You know, it's kind of a game? See if I can upset him? Nothing ever does. He's the most agreeable person you'd ever hope to meet."

I wasn't sure how to reply to that. Unlike his last outburst about his father in the dining hall, Bernard now sounded cool and almost conversational, like he was merely discussing an acquaintance's father and not his own.

"Well...I suppose it could be worse," I finally said.

"Why? You think it's good for someone to be agreeable all the time? It's not," Bernard rattled the next handle, "You'll find there are a lot of agreeable people out there and they all have one thing in common. The inability to form any sort of conviction or real opinion of their own."

"That's a bit harsh. Just because someone doesn't like conflict doesn't mean they can't think for themselves."

"Ah, but it's not just that they don't like conflict, it's that they feel obligated to agree with everyone and everything. And if you try to believe in everything, Amelia, you end up believing in nothing with just a mess of contradictions you think you can harmonize."

I tried the next handle, mulling over his words. The room was unlocked, but like the few before it, it was mostly empty.

"Or maybe agreeable people just like to keep their real opinions to themselves."

"It adds up to the same thing. Everyone will like you, but no one will respect you."

"And you'd rather be respected than liked, I take it?"

"Of course."

I paused.

"What about me? Out of complete curiosity, do you think I'm too agreeable?"

"The fact we're having this discussion tells me you're not. You're quiet, of course, but I can tell you're always thinking."

"I don't know if that's a good thing."

We were nearly at the other end of the hallway now. The clouds had covered the sun again, draining the color from floor to ceiling.

I sighed, straightening one of my ribbons.

"What are the chances of the bedroom being one of the last ones we check?"

"Not very likely," Bernard admitted, "I'm sure it's one of the locked ones. But we've made it this far. Might as well try."

He moved on to the next door on his side and I turned towards the one on mine.

 _Locked or empty_? I thought as I reached for the handle. It gave under the weight of my hand and the door creaked open. But the room beyond looked to be anything but empty.

"Bernard?" I called, heart thumping, "I found something."

The two of us entered the room together, still treading lightly, as if we were in an undiscovered tomb. Unlike all the others, this one had a few bulky, squarish forms draped in thick white sheets. Unwieldy ghosts that stood watching each other.

"Look," Bernard said, his head bent, "Footprints."

I looked down at my own feet. A smattering of large footprints traced a tangled path through the layer of dust. The implications were obvious.

"I'm sure this room was meant to be locked," Bernard said, "Whoever was poking around must've forgotten."

"You think it's _her_ room?"

In response, he pulled off the closest sheet, revealing an old yellow-stained bathtub with clawed feet and a few dead crickets littering the bottom.

"I think that answers that."

As he replaced the sheet, I moved across the room, drawn to the largest piece of furniture standing near a narrow window. I grabbed the sheet that enveloped it, thick and cool to the touch, and pulled, watching it slide into a white heap at my feet.

My gaze shifted up to take in a wardrobe with a large faded tree painted across its doors. A pale blue ribbon twisted through the tree's sprawling branches while the school's motto, _Praeteritum est, non tacet_ , arched overhead.

"No wonder that was covered," Bernard said, now standing beside me, his arms folded, "It's hideous."

"There's no handles," I said, running my eyes up and down the painted wood.

"What's this?"

Bernard reached out his hand and touched something near the base of the tree. It was a withered sapling with bare branches growing in the larger tree's shadow, painted a dull brown. An even duller gray ribbon, tattered and drooping, lay tangled in the sapling's branches.

"I'm not sure..."

I sighed again, this time in frustration. It was growing late and all we had uncovered was a wardrobe unable to be opened.

Bernard's fingers slid across the doors, up to the branches of the larger tree.

"There's names painted all over this ribbon, but they're too faded to make out. They all seem to have the last name 'Dreycott', though."

I stepped closer, so that my nose was centimeters from the chipped paint, and squinted.

"A family tree, maybe?"

From the nearby window, the sunlight suddenly returned in full force and a small, bright blue sparkle in the middle of the tree's trunk caught my eye. Some sort of faceted stone had been painted in shimmering blue and seemed to slightly pop from the paint surrounding it.

I glanced at Bernard, who nodded, and then pressed the small stone. There was a subtle click as it depressed, before the doors popped open a crack.

"I would love for all puzzles to be that easy," Bernard said,

Together, we dug our fingers in and pulled the doors wide.

"Oh."

That was the only word that came out. The wardrobe was completely bare save for a small wooden crate sat on the bottom.

" _Pfft_. What were expecting?" Bernard said, "A corpse?"

I bent down and grabbed the box. Its few contents rattled about as I took it and crouched near the floor. Bernard hunkered down beside me.

"There better be a bang-up clue in this box or I quit."

I carefully dumped the contents onto the dusty floorboards. Bernard immediately picked up the first item that dropped out with a clunk. A solid metal rod with a blue stone set at the end that looked identical to the one we'd uncovered in the secret passageway.

"Another one of these. Joy," he continued fingering it, "This one was a lot easier to get our hands on, eh?"

"What do you think they're for?" I asked, but my eyes had already shifted to an old photograph that had slid out of the box. Old, but not as old as I'd expected. I picked it up and studied it. Three children, two wearing Dreycott uniforms, one wearing overalls, were standing next to Hyacinth's fountain. A tall boy with dark hair, a strong jaw, and fierce, wily eyes. A willowy girl with heavy-framed glasses and long hair that nearly hid her face. And a younger boy, the one wearing overalls, whose crinkled eyes glinted mischievously as he held up a metal jack. He was the only one smiling of the three.

"There's something on the back," Bernard said.

I flipped the photograph over. Scrawled in hasty ink was a brief message:

 _Leaving what's left in the place it all started. There was never any story. Just jumbled pages and words and letters. Only misery to the ones who try to put together the pieces we found._

 _\- A_

"Oh my," Bernard said with a yawn, "Someone had a bad day."

I gazed over the rest of the box's contents. Two ribbons, one blue, the other silver. A thin volume of poems. A silver spider pinned in a small glass case. A deck of cards. A badge with Dreycott's insignia stitched across the front. A jack just like the one the boy was holding.

"I guess whoever wrote this wanted this box to be found. I mean, they would've destroyed it otherwise."

"The question is, why?" Bernard said, "It's all rubbish, not counting the weird metal wand thing. Then again, that's pretty useless too."

My eyes continued to scan the items. I couldn't help but feel as though they weren't random, that each carried a significance that connected it to the others. How exactly, I wasn't sure. The only thing I _was_ sure of was that the handwriting on the back of the photograph was the same as the letter I had found written by a certain "Beatrice". The way the 'L' curled at the end, the tall "t's", the hasty dots of the "i's"...

"Well?" Bernard prodded, "Thoughts?"

"Let's take it with us," I said, finally, "All of it."

The discovery of the box ended our exploration of the fourth floor. We cautiously made our way back downstairs, where Bernard went back to his room to catch up on homework and I took the box back to mine.

Setting it on my desk, I slipped inside the two letters I had found previously and sat, eyes unfocused. The whole thing was frustrating. Instead of learning more about Hyacinth, we had uncovered clues that seemed to relate to an entirely different mystery. One I wasn't sure was even relevant to the Statue. Then again...as I started sorting through the box once more, I examined the back of the photograph. The note was signed with an "A". For Abigail, maybe? Could Beatrice/Thisbe really be Professor Rosen? I squinted closer at the girl in the photograph. The glasses and hair along with the poor quality of the photograph made it almost impossible to get a good look at her features. Still, if it was her, it wouldn't hurt to learn more about her past, especially since it seemed like this mystery girl was involved in some sort of investigation of her own.

As I put the photograph and the letters away, I finally allowed my thoughts to return to the other letter sitting on my desk, the one from my father. The numbness immediately swallowed me once more. I didn't feel sad or alarmed or anxious, just empty. And exhausted. This term had done nothing but drain me dry over and over again.

Granddad...

I should be with him. From my father's letter it sounded like he was already on his way to recovery, which was reassuring, but he'd need someone to keep him occupied so he didn't pester the nurses into playing chess or overwhelm the doctors by discussing Kant's categorical imperative. Maybe, I thought, I should just leave Dreycott now. Would it matter in the end? It was strange. A few days ago I had been worried Clive would want to leave Dreycott, now I was the one contemplating that very idea yet again.

Out of the numbness, a lump appeared in my throat.

Once I left, who knew when I'd come back to London. Despite my father's assurance, it would likely be a few years before I'd see Clive, Gemma, and Bernard again. So much could change in that time. Would they even care to see me? Would they have solved Dreycott's mystery without me?

The lump grew harder to swallow. Self-pity. Taking myself and my problems far too seriously yet again. I knew that was all it was. Always too lost in my own head.

I'd have to tell them, though. I'd have to tell them I wasn't coming back. But when? And how? And what would they say when they knew? And... _What if_? What if there was a way I could come back?

The question startled me. As much as I wanted to be with my granddad as he recovered, I realized I didn't want to leave Dreycott permanently. This term had drained me, yes, but it had also made me realize why I had chosen to return in the first place. My conversation with Bernard earlier that afternoon...Gemma popping into my room in the midst of studying...playing chess in the library with Clive...

 _What if_?

This question and its companions dogged me throughout the rest of the week, grower ever louder and more insistent. There had to be a solution, some way I could find the money to return next year. During meals, I wracked my brain, tuning out the low patrol conversations, trying to see the situation from every angle, just as granddad had taught me to do during a game. While studying, my mind would slip back to the letter again and again, but by the end of the week I still had no answer and my brief burst of resolve had sunk, again, into a numb, fretful sort of acceptance.

Saturday evening we met in the Red Room. It was quiet for once, many pupils home for the weekend or studying out of doors. I sat with the wardrobe box on my lap next to Bernard as we waited for Clive and Gemma to arrive. I wanted to be excited about the box, but my stomach was too busy twisting in knots as my mind rehearsed again and again what I was going to say to them. I had already decided I couldn't put it off. I knew if I did that it might never come out and the last thing I wanted was to leave for home on the last day with the three of them still believing I would return next year.

"Hello, you two frowny-faces!" Gemma's chipper voice broke through my thoughts, "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"No, you're not," Bernard said, sitting up straighter, "You always _say_ that, but if you really were sorry you'd actually come earlier the next time."

"My, you _are_ a chatterbox tonight," Gemma replied, settling on the sofa across from us. Clive sat down beside her, notebook at the ready. His eyes had already found the box I was holding. They moved up to meet mine.

"So, how did your search go?"

"Fine," I swallowed. Should I say something now, get it out of the way, or should I wait? "Erm, but why don't you two go first?"

The words tumbled out before I could truly decide what I wanted to say.

"Alright!" Gemma rubbed her hands together, eye gleaming, "You're going to love it! We punched this 'eye' thing right in the...eye! Clive was good cop, I was bad cop. Interrogating people, you know? Demanding information! We were persistant!"

Clive cleared his throat. Gemma glanced at him in the midst of strangling an invisble neck.

"What? Oh, sorry."

As she settled back into her seat, Clive turned to Bernard and I.

"First, a quick review of what we already know," he said, "The eye of Araneae is an important part of, er, I'd guess you'd call it 'Dreycott mythology'. But it's especially important to the Patrol."

"Why again?" Bernard asked, scratching his ear.

"It's the Patrol's job to find it," I filled in automatically. Despite my worry, I couldn't help but be intrigued. "Supposedly the Patrol trapped Araneae beneath the school...all of her except her eye. It's still somewhere in the school and as long as it's missing there's a chance Araneae could escape. Or so the legend goes."

"It's bothered me for a long time," Clive said, "The origin of that story. Obviously, it's been highly exaggerated, but I couldn't help but think there might be something substantial at the center. Something concrete that the legend was built on top of."

"We asked around about the story," Gemma continued, "But most everyone we talked to didn't seem to know much about it."

"So I got to thinking," Clive said, "What if we were asking about the wrong thing?"

"What do you mean?" Bernard asked.

"The eye of Araneae seems like fairly esoteric patrol knowledge, but what if it was known by another name...?"

"So we asked around about the Dreycotts in connection to an eye and we finally got our answer," Gemma said, "From Mr. Porter, actually. He's sort of a Dreycott history buff. Anyway, get this. So the Dreycotts were super rich, right? Well, seems the source of some of their wealth was a gem."

Clive closed his eyes.

"The Oculus sapphire."

"Oculus...sapphire?"

I found I was genuinely engaged now. Something about the word sapphire nagged at me, but I didn't know why.

"Quite a famous gemstone, actually, or rather, infamous."

Bernard rolled his eyes.

"Let me guess, it's cursed."

"Not as far as I'm aware, but after doing so reading in the library we discovered it's supposedly one of the largest sapphires in the world. And, apparently, there was something peculiar about it...how it got its name...but I'm still looking into that."

"So, what happened to this sapphire?" I asked.

"It's documented history is long, but the Dreycotts were its last known owners," Clive said, reading his notes, "Supposedly, it disappeared several centuries ago and hasn't been seen since."

"You think the eye of Araneae is actually a sapphire?" I tugged at a strand of hair, "The Patrol think the eye is somewhere in the school…if that's true, then that would mean the Dreycott's misplaced a priceless sapphire in their own home. Doesn't seem likely. Or, perhaps, they hid it, themselves…hmm."

Clive ran a hand through his own tousled hair.

"It's a start, but not much more than that."

"Honestly, I really don't see how this connects to the Statue," Bernard said.

"On the contrary," Clive replied gravely, "Hyacinth said the eye would help to reveal everything. There's more to this sapphire, I just know it, but I think I've exhausted all of the school's resources. We'll need to look elsewhere for answers."

I suddenly snapped my fingers.

"The sapphire cycle!"

Gemma, Clive, and Bernard looked to me blankly.

"I knew there was something about sapphires. In the book about Dreycott in the special collection," I added hastily, "It talked about the sapphire cycle, remember? A series of puzzles used to test incoming pupils. And the puzzles in our hideout, they're a part of it."

"Hey, yeah!" Gemma said, "And you know that rod we found in the passage? I almost forgot about it, but it had a _blue stone_ on the end!"

Gemma suddenly leapt up from her seat, her jaw nearly dropping to her knees.

"WHAT IF IT'S THE OCULUS SAPPHIRE!?"

The few other pupils in the room glanced our direction. Gemma sat down with a cheeky wave in their direction.

"I'm fairly sure it's fake," Bernard said, pulling from the box the other rod, "This one is, anyway."

Gemma snatched it from him.

"You stole it from my room!?"

"No, we found another one."

With Bernard filling in additional details, I went on to explain our own discoveries about Hyacinth's drowning, the Mr. Crimp mentioned in the clipping, Lily's advice, and ended by showing Gemma and Clive the box we'd found in the wardrobe.

When I'd finished, Clive studied the contents of the box for several long minutes, Gemma peering over his shoulder.

He finally picked up the deck of cards and turned it over.

"Hmm. Mind if I hold onto this?" he said.

"Er," I shrugged, "That's fine with me."

He pocketed the deck and then picked up the photograph, reading the back.

"'A'..." he finally said, looking up, "Abigail Rosen?"

"Exactly what I thought," I said, "If it _is_ the Professor, it must be important somehow."

"Or 'A' could be for Amos," Gemma said, "You never know."

Bernard rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure Amos Crimp draws little curly-cues at the end of his 'L's."

"A person's handwriting can change over time, you know!"

Clive rubbed his brow.

"It's getting clearer. Hyacinth's death...the sapphire...Rosen...Mr. Crimp. We just need to figure out how it all fits together."

I glanced away, the enthusiasm that had overtaken me for a time suddenly draining. It was getting late, nearer to curfew.

"So, what's our next step?" Bernard said, after a pause.

"I think we ought to talk with Mr. Crimp," Gemma said, "What with that newspaper article and all. Maybe he knows something about this photograph, too."

Clive nodded.

"It's possible. We should try and talk to him before June 1st."

"What then?" Gemma said in a gloomy voice, "We've no idea when the Statue will appear."

Clive glanced around the room and I saw that the few other pupils were gathering their things.

"We'll discuss it more later," he said, slipping his notebook into his bag.

I felt a lurch in my stomach. It was time. Steady now. With a shaky breath, I forced myself to look up at the three of them.

"T-there's something else," I said, the words stiff and small, "Something I need to tell you."

"What?" Gemma said. She had already stood, but immediately sat back down, "What is it, Amelia?"

Clive and Bernard didn't say anything, waiting for me to continue. The tone of my voice had caught their complete attention. I opened my mouth to speak, even as my tongue dried to paper, and it was then that I felt the full weight of the week crash down upon me.

"I–I'm not coming back to Dreycott next year."

I stood, a sickening shot of dizziness tilting the room before my eyes. My next words spilled out in a numb rush.

"I'm not feeling very well. Maybe I'll go to bed. We can talk about it later."

Without waiting for a reply, I started out of the room at a brisk pace. I didn't know what I was doing, where I was going, but the room had gotten very hot and very bright all of a sudden and I needed somewhere quiet and cool and dark.

I could hear my friends calling my name now, trailing after me, but I ignored them, ducking into a staircase and letting it take me up and up and up–all the way to the fourth floor where I ran straight into Felix.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

_**The Story So Far. . .**_

 _The gang speaks with the Statue's latest victim, Archie, who reveals a troubling development concerning when the Statue will strike next. Later that day, reporter Cathy Cromwell approaches Clive about spying on an important meeting between Professor Rosen and the mysterious Man in the Green Suit, scheduled to take place during the Midsummer Masquerade. As the group considers their options, Amelia receives a letter from her father. Because of her grandfather's recent medical expenses, the family can no longer afford for her to attend Dreycott. After an attempt to tell her friends the news, Amelia accidentally runs into Felix on the abandoned fourth floor. . ._

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

Surprise is a funny thing.

We never know what form it will take until it hits us. In fact, it can be quite different depending on the circumstances. The woman who wins an all-expenses paid trip to San Grio and the man who blunders into a murder in the middle of the night could both be considered surprised, although their reactions would be almost nothing alike.

Then there is that sort of surprise that is almost beyond the negative and positive. The sort of surprise that levels us to an utterly stunned stupefaction and causes us to react irrationally, in ways quite unlike our usual selves.

As I cleared the top step and crashed straight into Felix, he gave a high-pitched yip like a small dog whose paw had been crushed, reeling back as his ever-present gang piled up behind him. I, on the other hand, found an unexpected stream of words rising to my lips as I pushed myself away from him. The first was some sort of garbled curse I had undoubtedly picked up from Bernard. Thankfully, the rest was more intelligible.

"Felix!? You're–you're up here again!? I didn't know. I was just–I'm not sure what I was thinking, but I should–I'll go now. It's almost curfew."

I turned round only to find my way blocked by Felix's friends who had fanned out in front of the stairs.

"Ruth."

I whipped back to Felix, whose eyes, initially round, had narrowed in suspicion, "What do you think _you're_ doing up here?" The sudden flash of his braces told me he had already recovered from his shock, "Looking for someone to tuck you in?"

"I–ah–"

My own surprise had faded and with it the spontaneous stream of chatter. It didn't help that the sound of my heart, still pumping madly from my climb up the stairs, was filling my whole head.

Felix took a step closer.

"Spit it out. Did Rosen send you up here?"

"No!" I blurted, willing my heart to settle as I drew in a shaky breath. I couldn't allow Felix to see I was scared. That would only egg him further. Instead, I tried keeping my next words cool and steady. "But I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing up here?"

Felix chuckled, folding his thick arms.

"We patrol up here. Or is that not obvious?"

His gang echoed his chuckle like cloned parrots. I still found it impossible to match the majority of their names to their faces, but they were all rather big and all rather good at twisting their features into whatever nasty expression their leader required of them. I did recognize Scissor Face #1 and #2 from previous encounters, as well as Eric, with his decidedly twiggy build.

"But your job is assisting Archie in the dorms."

I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if I could slip between two of the boys and make a dash down the stairs. I was small enough and fast enough when I wanted to be, but Felix's next words broke my concentration.

" _But your job is assisting Archie in the dorms_ ," he mimicked, "Yes, suppose Baldie needs someone to prop up his leg for him and sort through his fan mail. But let his girlfriend do that. I've got more important things to attend to."

Mass snickering. It was so irritating my next words popped out of their own accord.

"Like patrolling an empty floor?"

Felix wagged a finger at me.

"Look, pigtails, I'm only going to say this once. I know you and your friends have been spreading your greasy little prints over every inch of this school," His voice took on a mock falsetto as he daintily clasped his hands, "Trying to find clues to some _fanciful_ little mystery that you can all solve _together_ and be great _chums_. Adorable. But for some reason your little make-believe makes you think you've got the run of the place," Felix tsked, "And I really can't have that."

Despite the cliché ambiguity of his threat, something in his voice shot ice through my blood. Beneath the obnoxious jokes and disarming indifference, Felix was crafty, and beneath that...perhaps there was an even more wolfish side I hadn't been aware of. The Felix willing to act on his constant threats...

Felix gave me a pitying look.

"But I'm not an unreasonable bloke. So I'll give you one last chance to keep your mouth shut and stay where you belong. Like, say, in the back room with that old hag of a librarian."

The snickering grew louder. My face was burning now, my fists clenched, my jaw set, my feet useless as my tongue.

 _No..._

I could see myself keeping silent while Vivian humiliated Gemma... trying to speak up for Bernard in the dining hall...thinking I could rescue Shelby from the Scissor twins. Why, why, _why_ would the words never come when I needed them most?

"Aw, struck speechless. Makes sense. I _am_ the new Head Boy, after all."

"Head Boy!?" I sputtered.

Felix's grin was so wicked I took a step back.

"Soon enough. And you know, the very first thing I'm going to do is–"

There came the sound of frantic footsteps thumping up the stairs and then Clive, Gemma, and Bernard tumbled into the hallway. They instantly froze, mouths agape, when they saw us.

"Well, well," Felix said, his grin stretching, "The orphan, the witch, and the walking textbook. All the misfits in one place."

"Amelia, are you alright?" Clive called, ignoring Felix. Gemma had her fists up, ready to knock someone's head off, but Bernard had latched onto her suspenders.

"Your little girlfriend and I were just having a chat," Felix said, before I could get a word in.

Clive took a step forward, fists curling.

"Get away from her."

With snippets of that day last October, the whole terrible confrontation between Felix and Clive, flashing through my mind, I shot a razor-sharp elbow into Felix's side and shoved past his gang, over to my friends. Gemma immediately clamped onto my arm, as if she thought I might be sucked down the hallway.

"Amelia! Thank goodness! When you disappeared we panicked, but then Trewinkle thought maybe you came up here for some reason and–and–" Her voice dropped to a hiss, "What are _they_ doing up here!?"

Before I could answer, Felix snapped his fingers. Instantly his lackeys, like the well-trained sharks they were, started circling us, popping knuckles and sniggering, forcing us into a tight bunch.

"I know what you four've been up to," Felix said, "And I don't like it."

"And you think we don't know what you've been up to?" Clive shot back, "The real reason Rosen tossed you out?"

Felix's expression remained unchanged, but I saw a bit of color drain from his face.

"Oho. A good bluff, Dove. But not good enough."

"You think I'm bluffing?"

Felix snapped his fingers again and his friends obediently stopped, parting to let their leader through. He immediately grabbed Clive by his lapels and yanked him forward so that he was staring him straight down, breathing heavily onto his face.

"So. How do _you_ like it, Dove? Now tell me. Tell me what I'm hiding."

Clive smirked even as he twisted his head to avoid being blasted by Felix's breath.

"I'm not revealing my ace in the hole just yet. Not until the time is right."

I saw a vein begin to throb in Felix's forehead. Then it smoothed, as he shrugged carelessly. He suddenly let go of Clive, who stumbled backwards onto the floor.

Bernard, Gemma, and I quickly stepped in front of him.

"You!" Gemma said, raising her fists once again, "You're nothing but a–a modernMinotaur,you brute! Worse! You're King Minos, you fiend!"

"Don't think I'll ever forget what you did, Dove," Felix said, with little more than a glance at Gemma, "And now you think you have to stick your nose in my business too, slimy little weasel. I guess that only gives me double the reason to teach you a lesson. And I swear I will. _But not until the time is right_. Then everyone in this school will see what you really are."

Felix winked at me as he turned.

"October 19th," he mouthed, "Remember, Ruth."

He started towards the stairs, his friends at his heels, already cracking some joke which left them all in fits.

I turned back to Clive as their laughter faded down the steps, putting a hand on his shoulder as I knelt beside him.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, fixing his blazer.

"Were you really bluffing?" Gemma asked.

Clive nodded, as I helped him to his feet.

"Sorry about that," he said.

"It's not your fault," I replied, "It's mine. It was stupid of me to run off like that. But how did you know I was up here?"

Bernard held up a yellow piece of paper.

"This was on the stairs. It must have fallen from your bag. Good thing, too."

"Ergh!" Gemma launched a kick at the nearby wall, "I hate that boy so much! Calling me a witch and you an orphan. And you a walking textbook, Trewinkle! I mean that one's kind of true, but it was still mean... I'd like to rip a chunk of his cheese hair right out of his head, you know?"

"Let's worry about Felix later," Clive said, casting a concerned look at me.

"Oh!" Gemma's brow creased, as she suddenly remembered, "Amelia! Are you–are you really not coming back next year!?"

"Gemma," Clive chided gently.

"Er, uh, I'm sorry, Amelia. But–I just can't believe it."

"My family can't really afford it," I said, gazing at the floor, "It was lucky I got to attend at all. Cathy was right. I'm not Dreycott material."

"But I'm–I'm sure we can solve all the mysteries before term ends!" Gemma cried.

"Really, Mudget," Bernard replied, but there was no fire to his tone.

"Amelia."

I finally looked up, at Clive, who was fidgeting with his tie. "Listen. There is a way you could come back. I could talk with my mother. I know she would–"

"Clive,"

I blinked, suddenly realizing what he was trying to get at. My face started to grow hot. "I–I could never accept that. Thank you, but I just couldn't."

My voice had grown cold of its own accord. The idea of him paying my way through school filled me with a startling shame I didn't quite understand.

"I thought you might say that," Clive said. He sighed. "But...you would come back if you could, wouldn't you?"

"Of–of course."

"Then there has to be another way!" Gemma cried.

"Maybe there is," Bernard said quietly.

We all turned to him.

"That paper I gave you," he continued, "Isn't that the flyer for the chess tournament?"

"The chess tournament?"

I automatically unfolded the paper in question, the one that Madge had given me in the infirmary the other day.

"What about it...oh!"

I read through it again.

"They're offering a scholarship for the winner."

I looked back up at the three of them.

"You don't mean–"

"You could do it, Amelia!" Gemma said, suddenly beaming, "I know you could win!"

"Just a suggestion," Bernard shrugged, "I mean, of course it's a long shot, but you _are_ the best chess player here and this way it won't seem like you're accepting charity."

"I don't know," I said.

The chess tournament...I had never seriously considered entering it. The idea made me dizzy. I read through the flyer again and for some reason I felt a shot of relief.

"No," I shook my head, "It won't work. The tournament is a week after Dreycott lets out for the summer. I'll be home by then."

"Couldn't you stay in London just one more week?" Gemma said, hands clasped beneath her chin.

"Where?" I said, "I'm sure they wouldn't let me stay here."

"You can stay with me for the week," Clive said suddenly, "All three of you could. That way we could investigate some leads outside of school, as well."

"Stay with you?"

"If you won't let me help you directly, then let me help you this way," he replied, "It's your choice of course, but Bernard's right. You're a brilliant player and I think you'd have a chance. A good one."

"Really?"

My initial dizziness had given way to serious contemplation. What if I did enter...? If I lost, then I wouldn't be any worse off than I was now. I'd even get to spend one more week with my friends. But if I won...the scholarship was more than enough to cover tuition at Dreycott, at least for another year.

I looked up, feeling very calm all of sudden.

"I'll think about it."

I had said the same to Madge the other day, but this time I really meant it. I would turn the idea over and over, perhaps a few times more than necessary, until I knew for certain it was what I wanted to do.

"Yes!" Gemma said, slapping me on the back, "I hope you'll say yes! I'll see my mum this weekend, so I'll ask her then. What about you, Trewinkle?"

"If you three are in agreement, I don't see I have much choice."

"It's past curfew," Clive said, "We'd better head down. We'll talk more about it when Amelia has a chance to think it over."

None of us argued. It had been an exhausting evening. Perhaps that explained why I slept so well that night, despite everything I had on my mind. Instead of worrying, I simply allowed myself a sleepy gratitude for Clive, Gemma, and Bernard and how well the night had ended, despite the threat of Felix casting an ever-lengthening shadow.

The next day, after classes, I headed to the library in much higher spirits. This was in part because of how rested I felt and in part because helping Ms. Giltwing in the back always cheered me up.

Today, however, the back room was looking a bit crowded. Besides Ms. Giltwing, Vern and Tory, the two other patrollers who assisted in the library, were sorting through the remaining stacks of boxes.

"Amelia!" Ms. Giltwing said when she saw me, "Just in time. I've called in the calvary. If we all go full steam for a few hours, we'll have the place empty as a mausoleum."

I wasted no time starting in on the nearest box, sorting the salvageable books from the those that needed scrapped with practiced ease now. I estimated there was about twelve boxes left. Tory and Vern helping would shorten the time, but it still was quite a lot to get done in a single afternoon. No time for chitchat. I let my hands and my eyes take over, checking bindings, examining water stains, flipping through pages. All the while I kept my mind busy, finally allowing it to fully mull over the chess tournament.

As much as I loved the game, I'd never had a desire to enter any sort of competition before. Alright, perhaps that wasn't entirely true. I suppose there had always been a bit of curiosity in the back of my brain, a part of me that wondered just how good I really was and how I would fare against others my age just as dedicated to the game.

But tournaments meant clocks and crowds, pressure and penalties. I wasn't sure how I would fare in a situation like that. If I didn't enter the tournament, though, I would have to admit defeat and leave Dreycott for sure or else take Clive up on his offer. I didn't wish to do either. Boiling the three options down, the tournament was the most risky, but also the one that promised to have the best outcome...if I could win.

Could I win?

Granddad always told me to be realistic with my own talents. Don't undersell or oversell, he would say. Examine yourself without bias. I knew I was good at the game, but was I tournament worthy?

My line of questioning was interrupted by Tory and Vern, whose conversation had turned to a subject that was becoming increasingly popular at Dreycott as of late: the Midsummer Masquerade. It seemed since Cathy had approached Clive with her deal, the whole of the school had turned its attention to fretting over the upcoming ball: who they were going with, what they would wear, daydreaming of next summer when they'd finally be old enough to attend...It all made me question why schools held balls in the first place, if they only served to further distract pupils from their schoolwork, while also increasing gossip and drama by the hundred-fold.

"That's right. I asked Ursula yesterday," Vern was saying. He was Dreycott's resident snappy dresser. A bit vain, but both he and Tory sided with Vivian in the ongoing patroller feud, which I was glad of.

"Well? Did she say yes?" Tory prodded. She was the same age as Clive, but already head of the debate club.

Vern smoothed back his hair with a cocky smile.

"Naturally."

Tory turned to me all of a sudden.

"Who are you going with, Amelia?" she asked.

"Oh!" I hadn't expected to be drawn into the conversation, "Well... I'm not old enough," I said, after thinking for a second.

"True, but all patrollers get to attend, you know," Vern said, setting down a stack of books and dusting off his hands, "Even JPs." He winked, "Just another perk."

"Really?"

Interesting. If Clive did decide to do some spying on Professor Rosen during the masquerade, then I'd be able to help him from the inside. But what about Gemma and Bernard? They weren't old enough either. We'd all have to discuss this...

"So has anyone asked you?" Tory repeated.

"I don't know," I said absent-mindedly, still thinking about Cathy's deal and how we could possibly pull it off.

"Alright, chickadees," Ms. Giltwing said, turning to the three of us, her thin arms straining under the weight of an enormous box, "Enough time to dream of dancing and dress-up later. I might–" The box nearly toppled out of her arms, "Need some assistance with this."

Tory dashed over and helped her set down the box. She sighed, placing a hand on her hip.

"We've got five boxes left, you three. Let's try and finish before supper, shall we?"

Ms. Giltwing was all business right now. It was really no wonder. She had been working on the back room for so long and now to almost be done with the project...

We returned our full attention to the remaining boxes, the three of us each taking one, while Ms. Giltwing tackled the remaining two.

I was making good progress on mine until I was nearly half-way. That's when I picked up a book with a piece of folded paper sticking out of the top, like a makeshift bookmark.

My heart quickened.

Could it be another letter?

I pulled the paper loose and unfolded it. It was not a letter. In fact, I wasn't quite sure what it was. There were words, phrases, numbers, and symbols scribbled over every centimeter, many crossed out or peppered with question marks, as if someone had been attempting to crack a code...My eyes were drawn to one line that had been circled so many times the ink had cut deep into the paper.

 _Laboratory. Alt. entrance_. _Thru Devil's Labyrinth=sapphire cycle?_

Was it important? I couldn't be sure, but when no one was looking, I slipped the paper in my bag. I would show it to Ms. Giltwing after Tory and Vern had left.

Returning to the rest of the books in the box, we each worked steadily until a quarter to five. When the three of us had finished our own boxes, we helped Ms. Giltwing with the last one, tossing most of the books, which were wet and moldy, into the rubbish bin, until at last Tory unceremoniously chucked the last one from across the room.

"Not terribly climactic, but we're finally finished. After all this time," Ms. Giltwing said, stacking the box we had just emptied with the rest, "A job very well done. Thank goodness for all of you. That's a weight off my mind."

Vern and Tory wasted no time saying their goodbyes and heading out for supper.

"What now?" I said when they were gone, picking up my bag.

Ms. Giltwing chuckled.

"You worry about that when summer is over. For now, I'll work on cataloguing and shelving the rest of the books we've managed to save. Quite a few more than I was expecting. And a very early edition of Dostoyevsky's _Brothers Karamazov_ in nearly mint condition. Did you see? Vern found it. A real treasure."

Ms. Giltwing was practically breathless, clutching her chest as she picked up the book in question.

"Speaking of finding things," I pulled out the piece of paper, "I found this."

Ms. Giltwing scanned the paper quickly.

"Hmm. Another intriguing discovery," she nodded, "You know, there's something peculiar about looking at a person's paper scraps. Like gaining a glimpse into the messiness of the mind. Or perhaps 'madness' is a better word, hm-hm."

She handed the paper back to me.

"Hmm... Oh, that reminds me. I've been wanting to ask you...for awhile, now, actually..."

Ms. Giltwing cocked her head, hoop earrings catching the light.

"Yes?"

"If you knew anything about the death of Hyacinth Dreycott."

"Hyacinth...Dreycott?"

She pursed her lips, thinking.

"You know, the person you should really ask about that is Mr. Crimp," she finally said, "His father worked at the school and his father's father. Maybe even his great-grandfather. I'm sure he's collected all their stories."

I sighed. Every trail seemed to lead back to Amos Crimp, who was never very willing to give straight answers.

"Thank you. I'll see if I can track him down," I shouldered my bag, "So I can keep the paper?"

Ms. Giltwing smiled.

"As long as you like, but I hope I find you at the ball June 28th instead of stuck puzzling over some cryptic scrap."

She winked at me.

With a good-natured shrug that saved me from having to give a definitive answer, I waved and headed out of the room, then across the sunlit library, headed for the dining hall.

The patrol table was in rather dismal shape when I finally got my tray and sat down. Ursula, usually the first one to initiate and keep civil conversations flowing, was staring silently at her ham.

"Oh. Hi, Amelia," she said, not even bothering with the perky nickname she'd given me.

"Er, everything alright?" I asked.

"Sorry to seem so down, but it's Juliet. She still won't talk to me. She's shut herself up in her room," Ursula fumbled with one of her tight curls, "I think she was really scared by what happened. But how is she supposed to get better if she won't even talk with her best friend?"

"Hmm."

I really didn't feel the most qualified to give advice. If people wanted to be left alone, I was usually the first to do so. But if that someone were a close friend of mine, perhaps it would be different...I thought back to when Gemma had run off, when the rumors had finally gotten to her after she'd seen that dark hatch under the cellar. Clive, Bernard, and I had all gone after her, which had turned out to be the right thing to do in the end.

"You should keep trying," I finally said, "I'm sure she appreciates how concerned you are."

"Maybe," Ursula replied gloomily, "But it's almost the masquerade, her favorite time of year, and she doesn't even want to talk about that."

"Did someone say masquerade?" Stewart piped up in his usual fretful voice, "I've still not found anyone to go with. Any of you girls looking for a date?"

The clatter of cutlery was deafening.

"Guess not," Stewart muttered darkly, suddenly very interested in his potato.

"Everyone needs to be on their best behavior for the ball," Vivian spoke up, as if she were our collective mother, "We're the cream of the crop at Dreycott and we've got to make the right impression. The Professor is counting on us."

Her eyes darted towards Felix, probably suspecting he'd make some crude comment. But he and his gang had been very quiet this evening, only speaking to one another in low voices. It was almost worse than their usual loud joking.

"Hmph."

Apparently, Vivian didn't think so. She returned to her supper, looking quite satisfied.

I ate quickly and quietly, as I usually did, before scanning the room for my friends. Clive and Bernard were just finishing up, so I waited for them out in the hallway.

"Where's Gemma?" I asked, when they finally stepped from the dining hall.

"Right here!"

I jumped at the voice. Gemma had suddenly appeared at my side.

"Where did you get off to?" Bernard asked, as the four of us started down the hallway.

Gemma smiled.

"Drama practice."

"You're already working on next year's play?" Clive wondered.

"No, but we're doing something special for the masquerade. A bit of an acting recital. Scenes from A Midsummer Night's Dream. Get it? _Midsumme_ r masquerade? _Midsummer_ Night's Dream?"

Bernard groaned and I snickered.

"But anyway. There's good news and bad news. Since I'm performing at the masquerade, I'm able to attend! It's the hand of fate, I tell you. Bad news is I'll be up on stage for part of the night. I'm Helena, you know."

Gemma seemed quite proud of this last bit, though I wasn't sure what being 'Helena' entailed and from the looks of it neither did Bernard or Clive.

"Why is that bad news?" I asked, "If it's a role you want?"

"I mean, it _is_ good news, in a sense. But I won't be much help to Clive when I'm on stage," Gemma turned to him, "Have you decided about spying on Professor Rosen?" Her expression turned serious, "If so, I'm with you."

"Thank you," Clive said, "I've given it some thought and I think I will take Cathy up on her offer. I think the more we know about the Professor, the better. The same goes for Mr. Harrier."

He glanced at me.

"Of course, it's not something I plan to make a habit of."

"Of course," I said quietly. I had already made up my own mind to help him, even if I still had lingering doubts. I pressed on, "I can attend, too. I guess Rosen likes to show off the Patrol or something."

"Excellent!"

Gemma draped an arm around me and Clive.

"The Notebook Gang returns in style!This is going to be amazing. The best night of my life, probably. Don't even worry about getting tickets. I'll handle everything!"

She turned toward Bernard with a frown. "Aw, but what about Trewinkle? Maybe they'll let you attend as one of our dates. Who would you rather go with, me or Amelia?"

"Neither," Bernard said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "I'm not going."

Gemma disentangled herself from between the two of us.

"But you're the one who said Clive should go through with it."

"Exactly. I said _Clive_ should go through with it. Not me. I have no desire to be tossed into some gaudy carousel of rampant hormones. I'm quite above it, actually."

Clive frowned.

"Well, don't think I'm very happy about it, either. I would never go, otherwise."

"Me neither," I added, "I've never been one for parties. But I'll go through with it if it'll help shed light on the Statue."

Gemma glared at the three of us, looking highly offended.

"I swear, you three..." she pushed up her glasses, "I know you'd all rather shut yourselves up in your rooms, but what's the point of living if you don't actually step outside once in awhile and do something crazy?" She winked, "If nothing else, it will make you appreciate your rooms all the more."

"You really should consider stitching these platitudes of yours onto pillows," Bernard grumbled.

"Snark all you like, but I'm going to enjoy myself at the masquerade. You should too. I mean, we've yet to do anything really fun together. And..." Gemma's bright expression faded, "What if we never get to?"

"Alright, Gemma," Clive said, his own expression softening, "I promise I'll try and enjoy myself a bit, but just for your sake."

Gemma grinned.

"We haven't got any costumes, though," I said.

Gemma waved a hand.

"Oh, don't worry about that. The green room's got loads of costumes. I'm sure Miss Bijou wouldn't mind me borrowing a few. Just give me your sizes and–" Gemma stopped in the middle of the hallway, "You know, she's probably still working back there. If I catch her now...yes!" She ran off back the way we came, yelling over her shoulder as she swiped at her eyes, "I'll be back! But this is going to be so fantastic, guys! You'll see!"

"Er..." I turned to Clive with a slightly bemused expression as soon as she had rounded a corner, "Was she crying?"

"Tears of joy, I suppose?"

"I'm still not going," Bernard said, "Unless you want to kill me and drag my corpse behind you."

"Hmm," Clive clasped his chin, "Maybe there's a way you can still help, without actually attending."

Bernard shrugged.

"I'll help if you need me. But I'd rather ingest a bottle of–"

"Alright, we understand," Clive said, "I'll think of something. Now, where are we headed? The library?"

"Yes," I said, "We're going to the library. And you're going to sit down and play a match with me. I've some practicing to do, after all."

Clive blinked at me.

"So, then you're really...?"

I nodded.

"I'm going to speak to Mr. Grambler about it tomorrow."

"I'm glad you've decided to do it," he said, breaking into a grin, "You'll give them a run for their money."

I shot him a mock withering look, hoping he wouldn't notice how pink it was.

"Just because I can give _you_ a run for your money, doesn't mean others will be so easy."

"Hmph. Just so you know, I've been doing a bit of reading on chess theory. I'll be much more prepared this time."

I gave him a condescending smile.

"Theory is well and all, but when you get down to it, it's experience that really counts."

"Which is exactly why I think you'll win. After all, haven't you been playing since you were six?"

Sneaky little...I'd fallen right into his trap.

I decided to change the subject, trying to ignore his smug look of triumph.

"Er, so it's alright, then, if we stay with you for that week? It's not an intrusion?"

Clive sobered up.

"Of course not. We've more than enough room. I was going to write to my mother about it, but then I remembered she'll be at the masquerade, so I'll ask her then. I'm sure she'll say yes."

"Not to butt into this conversation," Bernard piped up irritably, "But before we get too ahead of ourselves, there's still June 1st to consider. Shouldn't we be trying to figure out whether or not the Statue's going to appear then?"

"I've been thinking," Clive said, "Last term, the Statue appeared during opening night of the play. What if it appears at the masquerade this time, instead of June 1st?"

"It's certainly possible," I replied, feeling a hint of that now familiar dread begin to creep over me yet again, "I guess it's all the more reason we should attend."

"You've no proof, though." Bernard said.

"No. Only a hunch. Not that there's much we can do at this point, anyway," Clive glanced at me and I caught a shadow of weariness, "I think our rotunda-watching days are over." He quickly shifted subjects, "I do still want to talk with Mr. Crimp, but..."

"Still no sign of him?"

"No."

"Of course. When we finally want to talk with him, he disappears."

"Maybe if we held a can of spray paint near the fountain he might pop out to defend it...?"

As we entered the library, Clive and I made for the chess set while Bernard stalked off to a dark reading corner, grumbling something about a "third wheel" under his breath.

For all our speculation, in the end, the Statue never did appear June 1st and Mr. Crimp remained elusive. The few weeks until the masquerade passed in a blur of long days in class and late nights of studying as final exams loomed on the horizon. I kept myself busy practicing for the tournament, as well, in club and out, roping Clive, Bernard, and even Gemma into a game in the library when I could.

The only time I took a chance to pause was when a letter from my grandad showed up in the post. True to his word, the first letter he sent to me when he was released from hospital was nearly ten pages long. Of course, I told him about the chess tournament and asked my parents for permission. I assumed they would be a bit hesitant, but knew if anyone could convince them, granddad could. And it seemed I was right, for my mother wrote me saying that it was alright for me to stay in London another week. She said the three of them wished very much they could come and see me at the tournament, but I knew it wasn't possible. It made me a bit sad, nonetheless. Having my granddad there would have been a comfort that nothing else could substitute.

Despite how busy I kept myself with studying and chess, I couldn't help but notice the school taking on a more festive air as a small heat wave rolled through, cracking windows in the school that hadn't been open for decades, and serious preparations for the masquerade began. I enjoyed watching them unfold whenever I was outside, as that was where the ball was to be held.

First, a large swath of the lawn was cordoned off with official-looking signs that warned pupils to stay back, like an enormous crime scene. Next, round tables and folding chairs were brought in and a temporary stage was constructed, as well as several tents. While out walking, I began to notice that the grass was uniformly trim, while the shrubs and trees were neatly clipped instead of shaggy. The old pergola, little more than a ramshackle collection of brick pillars and crossbeams, was suddenly swathed in fresh roses, climbing vines, and strands of lights. Fresh gravel was laid down on the paths. Benches were given new coats of paint, statuary, including the fountain, was scoured (though some were so old and crumbling it hardly made a difference).

I wasn't the only one who noticed these changes. The whole school paid attention and kept an ever closer eye on the lawn, discussing every minute addition to the work area with great gusto. Pupils paired off and hinted at costumes they would wear and even teachers joined in by telling very unwanted stories about the balls they had attended as youths.

The day of the masquerade, itself, was a flurry of activity. Caterers, musicians, school staff, patrollers and regular pupils volunteering their time, all could be glimpsed working around the site, setting up paper lanterns, banners, table cloths, and candles, preparing food, tuning instruments. Even Professor Xander and Miss Bijou were at it with the drama department, painting set pieces and hauling out costumes and props. It was easy to see that the masquerade was considered the capstone of the year, the grand finale that harkened back to the school's golden past.

It was a good thing it was a Saturday, otherwise I was sure no one would have paid a lick of attention in class. Even those who weren't planning on attending were in high spirits.

In fact, even I found the mood infectious, though, naturally, it was a bit tapered by the real reason I was attending the masquerade. Gemma, on the other hand, was completely taken in by the atmosphere. She knocked on my door an hour before the ball was supposed to start.

I almost didn't recognize her. She was wearing a Greek peplos (I only knew the name because of Gemma, naturally), long, flowing, and lavender. Her hair was similarly piled up on her head in some sort of Grecian style. Instead of glasses, she wore a butterfly-shaped mask. The toothbrush that she was furiously scrubbing her teeth with, however, ruined the effect.

"Oo' shtill na' weady!?" she gasped through a mouthful of toothpaste suds, her eyes bulging.

"It doesn't start for an hour," I said, blinking at her in shock.

"Geh dwessed, 'en 'o hep 'oo wi 'or makeup 'r shum'tin."

With a wave, she shut the door in my face.

"...Makeup?" I said aloud. I'd never worn makeup before. Not that I had anything much against it. I just didn't care.

I sighed as I pulled from under my bed the large white box that contained my costume. Gemma had been so excited when she'd given it to me several weeks ago.

"It'll suit you perfectly! I searched through hundreds of dresses before I found the right one!"

I'm sure she had been exaggerating a bit, but it had been a thoughtful gesture on her part, so I had peeked in the box and said a polite thank you, even though I had been less than excited by the idea of going around in some silly, flouncy get-up.

Bother this masquerade...

For some reason, Gemma's excitement had soured my own. Opening the box, I pulled out what I assumed was a ball gown, ivory in color. I prayed it wasn't actually a wedding dress, but at least it didn't look too terribly many-layered skirt was floor-length and the sleeves were lace. Gemma had even included accessories in the box: a pair of heels and a mask that matched the sleeves.

I put everything on as best as I could, save for the heels, which seemed too grown-up for me and would have been murder to walk around in. The dress covered my feet anyway, so I just decided to wear my favorite boots, worn as they were. A small comfort in an outfit that otherwise made me feel rather uncomfortable...

It did fit well, though. I did an experimental twirl in front of the mirror attached to the back of my door, then immediately stopped myself. The poofy skirt made it look like I was trapped in a cloud.

There was another knock at my door.

"Come in," I said, still gazing skeptically into the mirror.

Gemma peeked in and her expression immediately brightened (not that it wasn't already putting 1,000 watt bulbs to shame). She bustled into the room, her hands pressed together as she circled me.

"Aww! Amelia, it looks so lovely on you! I knew it would!" She hurried around me to fix the ribbon tied in the back. "Do you like it?"

"I suppose," I said, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

Gemma stood, hand to her chin, still examining me with a slight frown.

"Hmm."

"What is it?"

"It's just your hair..."

"My hair?"

I fingered one of my plaits. "I don't know how to do anything else with it."

"That's okay. I can help with that!"

Gemma patted my bed.

"Sit down and I'll be right back!"

She dashed from the room and returned shortly with a handful of all manner of hair supplies: brushes, combs, ties, pins, and a large canister of hair spray which she shook furiously.

Untying my ribbons, she began to brush out my hair, like I did every night before I went to bed.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" I said weakly, wincing as she tugged out a knot.

"Don't worry. I do my sister's hair all the time. And that's while she's screaming and trying to kill me. So this should be cake."

I felt a touch of loneliness.

"My mum used to do my hair..." I straightened, "But, er, then I learnt to do it myself. But only how to braid it."

"I won't let my mum touch my hair anymore. She has hands like steel lobster claws. And she uses this industrial grade brush? Not a pleasant experience."

I chuckled, the feeling already fading, as Gemma continued, "Jewel only hates me doing it slightly less. But only slightly. Seriously, she turns into a little banshee."

She pulled back my hair and began twisting it.

"She seemed really quiet at the play," I remarked.

"Only when she's around strangers. You're lucky you don't have a sister, especially one you have to share a room with."

I frowned, my eyes dropping to my feet.

"I think you're the lucky one," I said quietly.

"Hmm? Well, I don't know about lucky. But I guess we've had some good times pranking the boys."

Gemma continued tugging and twisting, inserting pins here and there. She was quiet for several minutes, and I could tell she was concentrating fiercely, but after awhile she went on.

"One time we mixed paint water and pretended it was pink lemonade. Only dad got to it first. Right when he came home from work and was super thirsty? He took a huge swig and then sprayed it out all over mum. The look on her face."

Gemma snorted, then ripped the cap off the hairspray, dousing me in a cough-inducing cloud.

"Whoops, little too much," She tilted her head, "Not perfect, but it suits you."

I got up from the bed and went to look in the mirror. Gemma had somehow wrestled my hair up into a complicated bun. It was a little lopsided, but she'd even braided small strands that wound themselves into the bun's center.

"Do you like it?" She suddenly sounded a bit shy.

I smiled, glad I could be completely honest for once.

"I do. Thank you."

Gemma grinned.

"You're just being nice!"

She leapt up from the bed.

"But enough messing around with hair and rubbish. We should get down there!"

I grabbed my school bag before Gemma pulled me through the door. It didn't match with my dress at all, but there were a few items pertaining to our investigation that I liked to keep with me.

The girls' dormitory hallway was already empty as we hurried towards the steps. We were supposed to meet Clive and Bernard at the bottom. Naturally, the boys were already waiting for us.

Bernard was dressed casually enough in a dark turtle-neck and trousers. He had a pair of heavy-looking binoculars hanging from his neck. Clive, on the other hand, was wearing a dinner jacket and a black mask that made him look like some sort of roof-top skimming thief. I could see he had tried to comb his hair neatly, but it still stuck up in a few places, refusing to be completely tamed. Despite this, I couldn't help but think he looked just a bit taller. A little more grown-up. It gave me a funny feeling, like I was meeting him for the first time all over again.

"You look dashing," Gemma said, rushing up to straighten his already symmetrical bow-tie. She was obviously pleased with herself. Bernard rolled his eyes.

"You look very nice yourself," Clive said, then added somewhat jokingly, "I am grateful you didn't choose anything too flashy for me. For the sake of our plan and my own."

Gemma finally stepped out of the way and Clive caught sight of me.

"It's my costume," I blurted, as if by way of explanation. "It's sort of itchy."

 _Sort of itchy_? I wanted to slap myself. The one time I managed to say something spontaneous...

"It looks lovely," Clive said, then added hastily, "I mean you, not just it, of course. It looks lovely because you're wearing it."

"Er, yes, same to you."

I noticed that Gemma was biting her lip very hard. Clive cleared his throat as he tugged at his collar. "Let's review the plan, shall we?"

We gathered in a small huddle.

"So, Bernard's going to keep watch in one of the trees at the edge of the masquerade," Clive said

"For suspicious activity," Bernard said, "Especially the Statue."

"Right."

"I'll be busy on stage for a bit," Gemma continued, "But after that, I'll be waiting, just in case Bernard gives me the signal. If he does, I'll see what the trouble is and then give you two the signal!"

"I'll be on the lookout for the Professor," I continued, "And I'll tail her when I find her."

"And I'll be doing the same for John Harrier," Clive finished.

"Okay, wonderful. We all know our parts, let's go!"

Gemma herded us all the way to the exit. Outside, we rounded the school, the night warm and clear and faintly star-studded, as if Professor Rosen had managed to pay extra for fine weather. Wafts of music, a lively waltz, drifted our way, increasing Gemma's speed ten-fold.

We turned a corner and there it was before us, lights and color and over a hundred or more guests mingling under the trees. It was like a living painting, a swirl of bright costumes and flowers. A small orchestra played on stage, their instruments winking under the lanterns and candles. I had never been to any sort of formal event before, but I had to admit there was something a bit enchanting about it all.

Then I was brought down to earth by a long:

"But duu-uude, we were promised a gig tonight!"

We had entered the back of a line snaking into the pergola which was now green and gold and heady with the scent of roses. The masquerade's entrance, staffed by a man with a familiar blond quiff and name-brand vest.

"Sorry, Mister, er, Thunder, was it? This is a ball, not some hooligan's concert. Maybe next year, eh?"

I watched as four figures in leather jackets and combat boots stalked off. I caught the eye of the last one lugging a cello case, Darcy, and she rolled her eyes at her band members.

"This is where I take my leave," Bernard said.

Clive slapped him on the shoulder.

"Stay sharp."

With a nod, Bernard disappeared into the shadows that lingered at the edges of the pergola, heading for a stand of trees.

"Ahem,"

I snapped back to the line. We had reached the man, who frowned at us as Gemma handed him our tickets. I saw, then, that he was wearing a nametag that read "Jeremy".

"You're not the vicious pranksters, are you?" Jeremy said, with a suspicious glare from down his nose, "The ones that nearly got me killed with that thing. You know? When the doors nearly crushed me?"

"No, sir," Gemma said, "Well, I don't mind a good prank every one in a while, but these two–" she jabbed a thumb at me and Clive, "Are sticks in the mud. They'll keep me out of trouble."

"I see," Jeremy glanced at a clipboard, "Proceed."

As we made to pass, however, his eyes narrowed and he held up a hand.

"Wait a moment."

The three of us froze, glancing at each other.

"You're the two junior detectives, aren't you?" he said, breaking into a grin, "From the play? Thought I recognized you!"

"You two are calling yourselves detectives?" Gemma said, "Way to leave me out of the loop!"

"So, how about it?" Jeremy asked, winking as if he was just playing along, "Any fascinating new leads?"

"Why? Reached a dead end, have you?" Clive replied.

"As a matter of fact I–" Jeremy cut himself off, blinking "Have no idea what you're talking about. Proceed!"

"Wait–" Clive said, but the man had already turned to the next pair. I was about to ask him what that little exchange had been all about when Gemma grabbed our hands.

"C'mon!"

She pulled us through the pergola and we emerged in the center of activity. Costumed masquerade-goers, in a vertiginous rainbow of colors and an even wider array of masks, feathered hats, jewelry, and capes, surrounded us. An open area near the stage, surrounded by flower beds dripping with blooms, had been reserved for dancing, while opposite the white-clothed tables had been arranged around a four-tiered cake and crystal bowl of punch. Two harried waiters who had been hired just for the occasion hustled about carrying trays laden with microscopic hors d'oeuvres. Gemma's gaze turned toward one of the tents near the stage where a number of young actors were darting in and out.

"Okay, got to go. I'll see you two after all this is over. And then we can relax and enjoy the night while it's young. _Eee_ , I've always wanted to say that!"

She lifted her skirts and dashed off.

"Alright," Clive said, "First thing we–"

"Amelia!"

Through the crowds, I caught a glimpse of Ursula, dragging Vern behind her. She wasn't too hard to spot, seeing as her dress was yellow and bright as a sunburst. Her smile told me she had returned to her former perky self entirely.

"Ursula, how are you?"

"Amy!" she stopped short of me, breathless, "I thought about what you said and I talked to Juliet again. And guess what, she decided she's going to come after all! She sounded excited and she's even bringing, like, a mystery date!"

"Glad to hear it," I said, offering her a smile.

"So, who's your date, then?" Ursula asked.

"Well, I'm not really..."

My voice trailed off as I realized Clive was nowhere in sight.

"That's funny. Er, I'm just here with my friends," I added quickly, "We're looking for Professor Rosen."

"I don't think she's here yet," Ursula said.

"Is she usually late?"

"It's not that. She always give a little tour of the school. You know, for any VIPs interested. But she shouldn't be too long."

A new waltz began and Ursula's eyes widened as she grabbed Vern's hand.

"Guess we're going to da-aaaaaaahhh!" I watched as poor Vern's arm was nearly wrenched from his socket as he was dragged away.

I folded my arms and looked about, wondering where in the world Clive had gone off to. I could go and look for him, but with this large a crowd I decided it would be better to stay in one place and let him find me. In the meantime, I busied myself trying to recognize everyone beneath their masks. The girl in the silky blue gown and the boy with crutches were obviously Vivian and Archie. Neither looked very happy. There was Stewart wearing an oversized bow tie, downing punch while he swayed to the music next to Kate, who was snapping pictures of people eating. And Lily dressed as a black cat, ignoring everyone as she heaped a plate full of scraps, probably for her little tree-climbing friend.

A few minutes later, I caught sight of Clive through the crowd, heading my way. Something about him seemed different, as if a bit of Ursula's perk had drifted over to him.

"There you are," I said, "Where did you get off to?"

"Sorry," he said, "That was rude of me. But when I saw Ursula I thought I could slip off for a moment and find my mother. She never usually stays at these events too long, anymore."

"Oh?"

"She says you're more than welcome to stay for the week and, er, she told me to tell you she has an original Staunton chess set you can practice with?"

My eyes widened.

"An original?"

"Yes, apparently it used to belong to someone named...Adolf Anderssen?"

I thought I might faint.

"You know him?" Clive asked, cocking his head with a frown.

"Of course! Well, not personally, but he won the Immortal Game."

Clive still looked confused, but I stopped myself from launching into a description of one of the greatest chess games of all time.

"Er, I'll tell you about it some other time. We should be on the lookout."

"Right."

"According to Ursula, Rosen's giving a tour of the school right now. But she should be here soon with some of her VIP guests."

"Hm. I wonder if Mr. Harrier is on that tour? We'll just have to keep our eyes open."

Turning to face the pergola, we stood for what felt like hours, watching as guests continued to drift in and circle around us, chatting, laughing, twirling, touching. It seemed we were the only ones who were standing still.

I thought of Bernard all alone in his dark tree with his binoculars and comfy-looking turtleneck. I wished, then, I could've swapped places with him.

Clive glanced at me.

"Are you thirsty?" he suddenly said, "Er, I could get you some punch?"

"No, I'm not thirsty, thanks."

"Do you want to sit down?"

"No," I folded my arms, "I'm fine."

"Oh. Alright, then."

The last remaining guests finally trickled through the pergola. At the far end, Jeremy had settled down on a stool to enjoy a cup of tea, apparently not expecting anyone else for awhile.

"Are _you_ thirsty?" I said, suddenly, "I...could get you some punch?"

Clive chuckled.

"That's not how it's supposed to work."

I blinked

"Oh? What? What do you mean, 'work'?"

"I was kidding. I only meant it wouldn't be very gentlemanly to make you bring me a drink."

I tried hiding a small smile behind my hand.

"Gentlemanly, eh?"

Clive looked embarrassed.

"I've been to a few of these sorts of events before, so I know about all the etiquette and formalities and such." He grinned sheepishly, "My mother...she even made me take a lesson in ballroom dancing once."

A snort of a laugh, rather unlady-like, escaped me at the thought.

"Are you any good?"

Clive shrugged.

"I never tried afterwards. I always slip out of parties soon as I can."

"I've never danced before," I said. I had never really even thought about it, but now, seeing all the couples across the lawn, I felt curious.

"I could show you," Clive said. He flushed slightly, "But only if you're comfortable. I don't want to–I mean, nevermind..."

I glanced towards the pergola, still empty.

"No. It's alright. You owe me for that chess lesson the other day."

"About experience? I would hardly call that a lesson."

But he took my right hand.

"So...er, let's see. I hold this hand."

"Okay..." I took his other hand with my left, "Like this?"

"No," he smirked, "Unless you're keen on ring-around-the-rosy."

"Oh."

I let go of his hand and he gingerly placed it against my back, near my shoulder blade.

"Now, put your other hand over my shoulder."

"Okay..."

I did as he said, locking us in a sort of half embrace. No, not a good comparison. I didn't need my face catching fire, thank you.

"Erm, now what?"

"Now, we dance. You sort of have to imagine a box on the ground. We'll both step forward, then diagonal, and so on, tracing the box. And keep the beat in mind. You know, 1-2-3, 1-2-3."

We both stood still, listening to the music for a moment.

"Maybe we should just try it," I finally said.

"Right."

I took a step forward, right onto Clive's toes.

"Sorry!"

"My fault," he said, as we both stepped back.

Our eyes on our feet, locked hands starting to sweat, we began shuffling in a square in time to the music. The actual dance floor was quite a ways away and I noticed from the corner of my eye several people giving us odd looks as they went around us.

"We're both ghastly," I said, managing a glance up at Clive.

"It only gets harder. These are the basic steps, but eventually you've got to add turns and flourishes and the like."

I stumbled back and bumped into a table.

"Not sure if I'm ready for that."

"Just try to keep your eyes up."

I looked up again and locked eyes with him, resisting a sudden urge to wrench myself away and dive into the nearest bottomless pit. I don't think I'd ever been more conscious of our height difference. Or the fact that his left ear appeared slightly crooked. Or that he smelled faintly of tea and fresh ink.

"There we go," His expression turned haughty, "Now we can engage in civil conversation."

"Ha, ha." I said, recovering quickly, "I think I'm worse at that than dancing."

"Just tell me about that chess game you mentioned earlier."

"What? The Immortal Game? You don't really want to hear about that."

"I do. Why is it 'immortal'?"

There was a sincerity to his eyes now, so I went on.

"Well, because it was so brilliantly played. Grandad calls it a 'work of art framed with a chessboard'."

"Oh?"

"Anderssen sacrificed some of his most important pieces to win, even his queen. Meanwhile, his opponent, Kieseritzky, only ever lost three pawns."

"Incredible. I'm sure not many players would be willing to take risks like that."

"No. Most take it for granted that the more pieces you have the better your chances. But granddad says...he says an active mind behind one pawn is worth all the other pieces combined. He also–Oh!"

Clive stumbled.

"Did I step on your foot?"

"No," I jerked my head in the direction of the pergola, "It's the Professor!"

Clive's eyes shot over to where Professor Rosen, in a flowing silvery gown and long white gloves, was leading a small group of elegantly dressed men and women.

"And Mr. Harrier is with her," he said in a low voice.

"Clive, what if they already had the meeting...in the school?"

"It's possible. But I still intend on following them."

"Right. Ready to split up?"

Clive slipped his hand from mine.

"Yes. I guess we'll have to cut this lesson short."

I wasn't sure if he sounded relieved or disappointed (I wasn't sure which one I was either, honestly), but the Professor had already broken off from her group and was heading across the lawn to a gathering of teachers sitting at a table.

"Right. Here I go. Be careful."

"You, too."

Clive's eyes had already narrowed in on Mr. Harrier talking to another of Rosen's VIP guests.

Keeping my own eyes fixed on the Professor, I threaded my way through the crowd until I was close enough to hear her conversation, but not so close she could easily pick me out. I kept her in the corner of my eye as she continued to talk with the teachers, pretending to admire a cherubic statue adorned with she moved on to chat with an elderly couple I followed, maintaining my same distance.

This follow-the-leader game continued I would say for nearly an hour. Professor Rosen kept herself quite busy in this time, shaking hands and engaging in lengthy small talk. From what I could observe, she seemed to be in fairly good spirits, smiling every so often and even politely laughing on occasion. But I also noticed her eyes were dart off to the side from time to time. Whenever she did this she would clasp her hands together or rub at her spider pendant. It seemed that something was troubling her and I couldn't help but wonder if it was the meeting...or maybe she was afraid the Statue would appear that evening, as well.

When the band stopped and the lights suddenly dimmed near the stage, I thought her fears (and mine) had been realized. Then a single spotlight shone down on the stage and Professor Xander stepped into its beam.

"Ladies and gentleman of all ages, a round of applause for the band..."

The crowd happily complied before the Professor continued. "Thank you ever so much for being here tonight, at this, Dreycott's..."

My attention was diverted back to Professor Rosen who had quietly excused herself from talking with Mr. Ebengrew and now was heading away from the stage just as everyone had begun to gather near. The musicians were already filing off as stage hands bustled in the shadows behind Xander, moving about pieces of scenery.

The acting recital was about to begin and yet the Professor seemed to have a different destination in mind. Curious...

Heart thumping, I slipped through the crowd, trying to keep my eyes on the back of her silver gown. She was heading down a path that lead through an arbor, away from the center of activity and towards the fountain, which, itself, had been dressed up for the occasion. Delicate bluebells were blooming all around the fountain's base and nearby lights made the water sparkle as it spilt from the vase held by Hyacinth.

The Professor's stride slowed as she neared the fountain. She looked over her shoulder and I, several paces behind her, quickly withdrew into the shadow of the trees.

We both waited.

From back the way we came, I could hear the recital begin, the voices of the actors carrying quite clearly across the lawn. Out of these voices a soft footsteps gradually distinguised themselves. Professor Rosen stiffened, straightening her shoulders as again she looked around warily.

A dark figure emerged from the path on the other side of the fountain and stepped into the light.

John Harrier.

I scanned the trees across the way. Hopefully, Clive was somewhere nearby. True, it only took one to eavesdrop, but him being close gave me a bit of reassurance. I wasn't sure what was about to go down...

"Professor," Mr. Harrier said, as if addressing Rosen for the first time that evening. As usual, he wore a luxurious shade of emerald.

He held out a hand which the Professor did not take.

"Mr. Harrier. No need for formalities. I know why you've arranged this meeting," The Professor's voice was rigid and cold as her posture.

Mr. Harrier tutted.

"Now, now, Professor. Tonight is one of celebration. To relax and let down one's guard," He spread an arm, "Your school has never looked more beautiful, wouldn't you agree?"

"You should have seen it when my grandfather was headmaster."

"Perhaps it can return to its former glory, Professor. Perhaps it can become even greater. However–"

Mr. Harrier intentionally cut himself off, tugging at his sleeve. "However," he repeated, "I have heard rumors, Professor."

"What sort of rumors, Mr. Harrier?"

"That this school has been subject to a number of accidents."

"Accidents, Mr. Harrier?" There was something odd about Rosen's tone. She was watching Mr. Harrier very closely, almost scrutinizing him.

"Yes. Wasn't it only a few weeks ago that a pupil of yours, Archibald Blaze, broke his leg?"

"As you said, Mr. Harrier, it was an accident. A very unfortunate one, but an accident nevertheless."

"It is funny, Professor. I've also heard rumors that you've hired a private investigator. Something about an extremely resourceful rogue pupil with a vendetta against the school. Causing malicious pranks?"

The Professor continued to study Mr. Harrier.

"It is too early for assumptions."

"Or perhaps it is too late. These matters are quite troubling to me, Professor. I have invested much in this school. But now...now I must reconsider."

"You mean to tell me this is the first you've heard of the accidents?"

Mr. Harrier gave her a sharp look.

"What are you suggesting, Professor?"

Professor Rosen was silent.

"Come now. I know you've done your best to keep things quiet. It was only after what happened to Mr. Blaze that the rumors flaired up. How could I have known otherwise?"

"Do you have something for me, Mr. Harrier?" The Professor asked stiffly.

"So eager. Guests to attend to, I presume?" Mr. Harrier reached into his jacket and pulled out a white envelope. "But, as a matter of fact, I do have something for you."

The Professor stared at the letter in his hand.

"Tell me, Mr. Harrier. Why are they always sent through you? You say you've nothing to do with them, but I find that hard to believe given the circumstances.

"Now, Professor," Mr. Harrier said, "On what grounds do you accuse me? All I can tell you is what I told you before. I go to my office every morning at seven and my secretary hands me my post. Sometimes, while sorting through it, I find a letter addressed to you. Of course, it wouldn't be right for me to hold on to such letters. I must give them to their intended recipient," Mr. Harrier turned his own gaze to the letter, "If anything, Professor, _I_ should be asking _you_ about these mystery letters. Why are they sent to me? Are they threats? Blackmail? Do they have to do with these accidents? Should you go to the police?"

Now it was Mr. Harrier's turn to sound odd. I could have almost sworn there was a hint of mockery to his words.

I leaned in closer, holding my breath as Professor Rosen took the letter from Mr. Harrier.

"They are nothing to concern yourself with, Mr. Harrier. School business, is all."

"I see. Despite you reticence, know that my dedication to this school, to your grandfather's legacy, is unwavering. If, _if_ , these 'accidents' are stopped, I am willing to give to Dreycott what we discussed previously. You do think you can put a stop to these accidents, don't you?"

"...Yes. I do."

"I know this school has quite the history, Professor. There isn't anything you're not telling me, is there?"

Again, that vaguely condescending tone.

Rosen lowered her eyes.

"Nothing that hasn't already been settled."

"Very well, then. I'll leave you to your letter. Just know that I'm never far if you need to reach me."

The words hung in the air like a threat.

"Good night, Professor."

With that, Mr. Harrier walked leisurely back the way he came and disappeared into the shadows.

As soon as he was gone, Professor Rosen broke the blue wax seal on the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. She read it, once, twice, three times, then crushed it, along with the envelope, in her fist until it was little more than a misshapen ball. A weariness had settled over her countenance like none I had seen on her before. She looked so old.

And then, without any hesitation, she turned and tossed the letter into the fountain. It made little more than a pathetic plip as it touched the water, weakly bobbing along the surface.

The Professor stood watching the fountain for a long time. Her back was to me now, so I could not tell if her expression had changed, only that her shoulders seemed to be heaving slightly. The breeze suddenly caught in her silver hair and the hem of gown. For a moment, I imagined her a mirror image of Hyacinth, who stood silently, as always, eyes downcast, her own hair wind-swept.

Just when I thought Rosen might have hardened to stone herself, however, she turned swiftly and headed back towards the masquerade as another round of applause rang out near the stage.

As the crunch of her heels faded into the clapping, I cautiously stepped out onto the path and made for the fountain. If there was any chance that letter was still salvageable...

But no. It was nothing more than a wet, pulpy, inky blob by the time I managed to fish it out.

"I figured as much."

I started at the voice.

Clive had somehow managed to slink up next to me without a sound.

I threw the paper blob smack at his chest.

"Don't. Scare me like that."

"Sorry."

Together, we sat down at the edge of the fountain.

"So, what do you make of it?" he asked, rubbing at the wet smudge the paper had left on his shirt.

I allowed myself a moment to collect my thoughts, before finally speaking.

"Cathy said the meeting would decide the fate of the school...but, I dunno, there was something off about the whole thing."

"Agreed. You were right to be suspicious of Mr. Harrier. It can't be a coincidence that he's been receiving the Professor's letters. I think he knows more about them then he's letting on and I think the Professor knows it, too."

"Do you..." I lowered my voice, "Do you think he's black-mailing the Professor or something? It's the first thing that popped into my mind, even before he mentioned it."

"I thought of that, too. Of course we can't say for certain, but if so, why and what is he using to black-mail her with?"

Before I could answer, there came a number of rowdy voices from down the path. I squinted and caught a flash of ginger.

"Oh no," I said, standing, "Not again."

"Felix?" Clive said, following suit.

"Yes. Why is he always popping up at the worse possible time? Come on–"

Too late. Felix and his friends had caught sight of us and were now thundering down the path in a rowdy pack, laughing and shoving one another.

I caught Clive's sleeve.

"Let's go," I hissed.

But something about the group had him rooted in place. I turned back. Felix's gang had slowed now that they were nearing us. They were all wearing a number of garish and hideous costumes that seemed more apt for Halloween than a masked ball.

Felix was dressed as a vampire, complete with cape and red paint spattering his clothes and dribbling from the corner of his mouth. But it was the figure holding his hand who caught my attention, just as she had Clive's: a solitary girl in Felix's group dressed as a mini-skirted vampiress, her mask drawn on with glittery eye-makeup.

"Juliet?" I said before I could stop myself, as the group halted before us.

Juliet rolled her enormous blue eyes.

"Um, it's _Juju_ , now, actually."

"Ursula said you'd be here, but I didn't know you'd be with..."

I trailed off, inwardly shuddering at the thought of anyone wanting to be with Felix.

" _Felix_ , duh, did you forget his name?" Juliet clasped Felix's arm, "We're _official_ , aren't we, _Fefe_?"

 _Fefe?_

Clive and I winced at each other.

Felix smirked, his braces glittering, as if this was all a joke at our expense.

"Yes, that's right, _Juju._ "

"So you've recovered from your shock," Clive said, "From seeing the Statue?"

Juliet huffed.

"Yes, I guess it was a shock at first. But then Felix came and explained it all to me. Oh, and then he asked me to the masquerade and of course I said–

"Juliet," Clive cut in, "What did you just say?"

Juliet stomped her foot.

"I told you, it's Juju!"

I noticed Felix had gone a bit pale and his friends were looking at each other nervously.

"What did you just say about Felix 'explaining' something to you?"

Juliet folded her arms.

"You're missing the point! You know, Felix told me all about you. How you're only still here because of your mother's money. Otherwise, they would have tossed you out a long time ago."

"That's not true," Clive said in an even voice, although I could tell he was stiffening.

I put a hand on his arm.

"Let's get out of here."

"And you!" Juliet said, pointing a finger at me, clearly enjoying herself, "I honestly don't know what the Professor sees in you. Always soo drab and mousy. You're just a charity case, aren't you? Aw, but how convenient you've attached yourself to one of the richest boys at Dreycott."

Felix's smirk had only widened.

"She's quite a little spitfire when she wants to be, isn't she?"

"Say what you want about us," Clive said, "But I'm only interesting in discussing the facts. Now if you'll excuse us–"

Felix's friends had already fanned out around us.

"I said I'd teach you a lesson, Dove. Guess tonight is as good as any."

Juliet was clapping her hands and jumping up and down, which looked rather difficult in her stiletto boots.

"Ooh, yes! Teach them a lesson, Fefe!" she grinned mischievously, "Throw them in the fountain!"

Clive stepped in front of me.

"Don't make trouble for yourself, Felix," he said, "It's not worth it."

I stepped up beside Clive.

"Juliet, what about Ursula? She was really worried about you. Don't you think–"

"How many times do I have to say it? It's _Juju_ ," Juliet stomped her foot again, "Throw them in the fountain! Ruth first!"

"Touch her and you won't have to bother with fake blood," Clive said, his voice level, but hard.

Despite his words, I knew he was no match for all of Felix's gang. And a feather-weight first-year like me wasn't likely to be much help.

"Just let us through," I said.

Felix only put an arm around Juliet as he snapped his fingers at his friends, who suddenly made for us with stupid grins.

 _Schnlink_!

The harsh metallic sound rang out through the night, freezing everyone.

We all turned towards its source. A shovel had struck the middle of the path, a rough hand wrapped around the top of the handle. Gravel crunched as the shovel's owner stepped from the shadows.

"Kidlin's these days," Amos Crimp spit onto the side of the path, "Too much drama an' skateboardin'."

He picked up his shovel.

"Any of yeh wot touches an 'air on lil' Missy's 'ead an' you'll fin' this lodged in yer own," Mr. Crimp glanced at Clive, "Same goes for spike-'air."

"Ugh!" Juliet put a hand of her hip, "Just so you know, my father is a very good lawyer. He could sue the teeth right out of your head. _And_ you'd go to prison."

"Psh," Mr. Crimp grunted, "No' li' I 'ave'n been before."

Felix blanched.

"Let's go," he muttered.

Without another word, he and his friends abandoned Juliet, scattering in all directions.

" _HEEEEY_!" she squealed, as she scampered after them, "YOU COWARDS!"

I let out a breath I'd been holding in ever since I'd caught sight of Felix.

"Thank you, Mr. Crimp," I said.

"Yes," Clive said, sounding a little breathless himself.

Mr. Crimp turned, masking his face in shadow once more.

"I know wot th' two of you was up to t'night," he said. He started down the path, "Follow me. I'm ready t' tell yeh wot I know."


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

_**The Story So Far. . .**_

 _With some encouragement, Amelia decides to sign up for the Blackburne Junior Chess Tournament and the four make plans to stay with Clive for the week. As the tournament, and the end of the school year, approaches, Gemma, Clive, and Amelia attend the school's masquerade ball in order to eavesdrop on an important meeting between Professor Rosen and Mr. Harrier. Afterwards, Amelia and Clive have a tense confrontation with Felix's gang, broken up by Mr. Crimp who finally wishes to discuss what he knows with the two. . ._

 **Chapter Twenty-Two**

The further we followed Mr. Crimp away from the bright lights of the masquerade, the more wary I became.

At first, I'd thought we were headed for a solitary bench, so Mr. Crimp could sit down as he explained, but the old groundsman had swept right past it, down a long path that skirted the west wing and curved round to the back of the property.

Here, the foliage remained wild and overgrown, a dark copse broken only by the odd lamppost mustering a diffuse amber glow that seduced all manner of nocturnal insects. Weeds erupted amongst the gravel beneath our feet and black flickers overhead told me there were bats about. Crickets chirruped in the undergrowth, drunk with the night's warmth, the scent of rotting blooms and wet bark, the solitude of the wood. I couldn't help but think how easy it would be for an unhinged old man good with a shovel to murder the two children stumbling after him, deeper and deeper into the trees.

"Where do you suppose he's taking us?" I whispered to Clive, whose shadowed features seemed to indicate he was thinking along the same lines.

"I haven't the slightest. But be ready," he whispered back.

"This way. Keep up!"

Ahead, Mr. Crimp waved his shovel impatiently, before rounding a corner and vanishing from sight. We followed him and after a minute, the trees began to thin out, revealing a lopsided cottage huddled close to the iron fence, nearly hidden in a cloud of dense lilac shrubs. A warm glow shown through the windows and a ribbon of smoke wended from the chimney, rising to brush the moon.

Hobbling up the short walk, Mr. Crimp slipped a key from the pocket of his overalls. He unlocked the front door and shoved it open with his shoulder, gesturing for us to enter.

"We can talk in prive' 'ere," he said, "Anywhere else's too risky."

Clive and I glanced at each other halfway up the walk, silently asking each other the same question. Should we trust him?

"Well?" Mr. Crimp said, "Don' got all night."

He looked extra shabby standing framed by his cottage, his heavy brows furrowed as he studied us. But I couldn't see anything malicious or mad in his yellowed eyes. Instead, there was a grave urgency.

"It's alright," I murmered, more to myself than anyone else.

"Hm." Clive's expression told me he'd come to the same conclusion.

We stepped into the cottage and Mr. Crimp shut the door behind us, hanging his sun hat on a nearby peg.

The place matched its owner quite well, including its smell. Like an old pub in potting soil. The wood floor was clean swept, the round table was covered in trays of succulents, sorted herbs, and the remains of a dinner for one, while a blanket wrapped sofa hunched before the crackling fireplace along with a stack of newspapers and a few heavy gardening books. Onions and garlic were strung from the rafters along with bits of rope and tools, a few which seemed to be propping the roof in some capacity.

As Mr. Crimp stooped to stoke the flames, I noticed the mantle was covered in odd bits and ends, old trinkets and blurry photographs, much like the shelf in my grandfather's study. It added to the musty coziness the place somehow possessed.

"Sit down," Mr Crimp said, turning to sweep crumbs off the sofa, "Can I getcha some tea? Special blend I made up meself with me own 'erbs. Or I could make some buttered toast?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I said, as Clive and I settled into our seats.

"I'll try your tea, if you don't mind," Clive said.

Mr. Crimp glared at him.

"Then go pour yehself some. Or do I look like a pamby man-servant to you?

"Er..."

"Hmph. Kidlin's today. So lazy they expect tired old men to serve 'em tea as they lounge in comfort. Nex' you'll be wantin' a foot massage, I 'spose..."

Grumbling under his breath, Mr. Crimp stalked through a doorway, into what I assume was the kitchen.

"What did I ever do to that man?" Clive muttered, "I only asked for his tea to get on his good side."

I smiled faintly.

"I'm not sure he has a good side where you're concerned."

Clive sighed, taking off his mask to rub at the corner of his eye.

"You alright?" I asked, after a moment. I took off my own mask, as he turned to me, suddenly serious.

"Listen. That... situation was all my fault. I'm the one he hates, after all. Felix, I mean."

"Don't worry about it," I said, "And don't try to apologize. Nothing happened, so forget it."

My words had come out a bit stiff, but I wasn't mad at him. If anything I was grateful for how he had stood up to Felix, tried to protect me. But at the same time I was embarrassed. At myself. For needing protection. I knew how to defend myself on the chessboard, after all. Why couldn't it be the same in real life?

But there was another reason for my embarrassment, I knew, though I felt as if I could only half admit it because of how irrational it seemed. It had to do with how silly I'd acted earlier, how caught up in the atmosphere.

 _"I've never danced before..."_

I stood suddenly and walked over to the mantel, curious of its contents and wanting to keep my mind from replaying the whole scene, which seemed be growing more retrospectively mortifying by the second.

I forced myself to focus in on the myriad of trinkets, but it was one black and white photograph that finally caught my eye. I stood blinking at it a moment, then with a gasp, I reached into my bag, fumbling until I pulled out another picture, exactly the same as the one framed before me, a picture I had found in a box in a wardrobe on the fourth floor.

"Clive..."

I turned to see he was already standing beside me. He picked up a small jack that had been placed near the photograph of the three children: the tall boy and the bespectacled girl in Dreycott uniforms, their expressions severe in a sort of old-fashioned way, and the younger boy beside them, grinning broadly, holding up a jack very much like the one Clive was fingering.

"I thought he looked familiar..." Clive said.

We both were silent as we studied the two identical pictures side by side. The mischievous smile, the wild hair, the overalls... how could I have not seen it before...?

" _Ahem_."

We both turned.

Mr. Crump had returned to the room with a steaming mug in one hand and a pipe in the other.

We both returned to our seats as he handed Clive the mug.

"Not much of int'rest to see on that shelf," he said, pulling up a chair beside the fire, "Dust 'n mem'ries. Same thing, if yeh think about it."

Clive took a thoughtful sip of tea and nearly choked. I watched him swallow, a painful, laborious motion, as his eyes began to water.

"Good enough for 'er Majesty 'erself, eh?" Mr. Crimp said, grinning. "The secre' is usin one part mugwort and twenty parts peppercherry. I call it 'Death t' Skateboards' cause their's not a skate-boardin' hooligan wot could stand th' sophisticated flavorin'. A man's tea, that's wot it is."

Clive could only give a hoarse croak as he carefully set the mug down on the small coffee table.

He cleared his throat.

"So, Mr. Crimp, you can tell us more about Mr. Harrier's connection to the Professor?"

Mr. Crimp's eyes narrowed.

"Don' get ahead of yehself, lad. I though' th' two of you was lookin' into Hyacinth's death?"

"We were," I said, "We are. We've been meaning to ask you about it. Since I know your father worked here and your–"

"Father's father an' me father's father's father," Mr. Crimp said. He struck a match against the arm of his chair and lit his pipe, taking a thoughtful puff. "Me fam'ly 'as been a part of this school as long as th' stones 'ave been part of th' walls."

"But that isn't the whole of it," Clive said, "Your family used to work for the Dreycotts, correct?"

"'Course," Amos said fiercely, teeth clenched round his pipe, "They owned th' school, didn' they? Any regular spi'-head could figure that out."

"What I meant was, I believe your family served the Dreycott family personally and not only in connection to the school."

"Hmph," was all Mr. Crimp could say.

"Does that mean you know the truth about how Hyacinth died?" I asked.

Mr. Crimp turned to gaze out the window.

"'Er death was unnatural."

"So, it's true, then," Clive said, closing his eyes as he stroked his chin.

"Yes, and it's all because of th' feud."

"The feud?" I thought a moment, "You mean the same one you told me about before...the, er, the blood feud?"

I was a bit surprised. Mr. Crimp had not mentioned this mysterious feud since the very first time I'd spoken with him near the fountain during my first term. I'd almost forgotten about it.

Mr. Crimp turned back to us.

"That feud is the reason for ev'vrything that's 'appenin' now. I thought it was all done an' buried, but someone's try'n to stir it all up again."

"But who exactly is involved in this feud?" Clive asked.

Mr. Crimp gave him a funny look.

"Thought it'd be obvious," he scratched his beard, seeming to savor the pause, "It's 'tween th' Dreycotts and th' Rosens."

Clive and I were both silent for a moment as we let that sink in. It seemed something I should have known, something that had always been there, lurking behind all of the mysteries we'd encountered. If only I'd been smart enough to see it sooner...

"The Dreycotts and the Rosens?" I finally repeated.

"I always knew there was a greater connection between the two," Clive said, "But I never thought..."

"Two very powerful fam'lies," Mr. Crimp said, "Though neither 'ad much by way of noble titles. Unorthodox to th' end, th' both of 'em."

"Rosen is still a prominent name in London," Clive said, "But the Dreycotts...I'm still not quite sure what happened to them. It's almost as if they dropped off the face of the earth..."

"Yes," I said, "Ms. Giltwing told me they fell on hard times...scandal...but she never really elaborated."

"Th' two fam'lies have long tried to ruin the other," Mr. Crimp continued, "For centuries. But in th' end, th' Dreycotts destroyed themselves."

"And–and this relates to Hyacinth's death?"

"Yes," Mr. Crimp gave us both a long, hard look, "Yeh see...it was 'er own doin'. She drowned 'erself."

"Hyacinth drowned herself?" Clive repeated.

"You 'eard me ri'. Shook the fam'ly to its very core. They were able to keep it secret, someway, somehow, but they never qui' recovered. Of course, me fam'ly 'as always known th' truth."

Clive was frowning.

"But we have reason to believe someone murdered her."

I knew he was thinking about what the Statue had told him that night in the rotunda, the soft sibilant words that were impossible to forget, even now:

 _My death was not a natural one. My life was taken from me by the same ones who brought ruin to my family._

The ones who brought ruin to her family...could it be she was referring to the Rosens? If that were the case, then Hyacinth was accusing the Rosen family of murder, of intentionally drowning her. But how did that align with what Mr. Crimp was saying?

"Do you know of any reason why Hyacinth would–would do something like that?" I asked.

Mr. Crimp took another puff of his pipe.

"'Twas something she knew...something she found out...'bout the Rosen fam'ly...'bout the feud. That's the rumor me fam'ly 'as passed down, anyway."

"So, I suppose you could say, in a sense, that the Rosen family drove her to do what she did," Clive said, "In a sense, you could say they were responsible for her death...indirectly."

"Or that's what Hyacinth believes, anyway."

Silence. Both Clive and Mr. Crimp were staring at me. My face grew hot as I finally realized why.

"I mean–"

Mr. Crimp held up a hand.

"'S alright, Amelie. I know 'bout the Statue."

"You-you do?" I sputtered, "But that time I asked you about it, you seemed rather...rather confused."

"Hmph. I was feignin' ignorance for yeh own safety. But my confusion was also real. Still is. In one way or another, Hyacinth 'as returned to us."

"Hmm..."

There was something...something Mr. Crimp had said about Hyacinth when I'd first met him...something I couldn't quite remember that tickled at the edge of my brain. I felt he was holding something back, but I wasn't quite sure how to put the question into words.

"The Rosens are the ones Hyacinth are trying to expose, then," Clive said, "She told us she wanted to avenge her family, to expose the ones responsible for wronging and ruining her family, for taking her life from her. Who else could it be?"

"Hyacinth...or the one manipulating this 'living statue'," I added. As much as she frightened me, I could never accept that the Statue was actually a girl back from the dead. There had to be something behind her. Something logical. There had to be.

Clive nodded as he turned to face Mr. Crimp.

"Someone behind the scenes at this school is looking for revenge on Professor Rosen and her family, aren't they?"

I tugged at a lose strand of hair as realization dawned on me.

"You mean...a Dreycott?"

Mr. Crimp shook his head.

"You're 'alf right. Someone 'as wormed their way to power at this school, someone with a fiendish plot. But the Dreycotts are all gone...the last of 'em died when I was a lad."

He suddenly stood, chair and joints both creaking, and shuffled over to the mantle, taking down the picture Clive and I had only just been studying. He gazed at it a moment, brow knitting tight as if he were trying to puzzle out something hidden in the image.

"Who are the other two in that picture, Mr. Crimp?" I asked.

"Abby," he replied, suddenly sounding rather hoarse, "Er, that's Professor Rosen, to you. An' Pete. Peter Dreycott. The last of th' Dreycotts. Died before his twentieth birthday."

"You're saying a Dreycott and a Rosen both attended this school?" Clive said, "And they were...?"

"Friends," Mr. Crimp confirmed, "Abby's grandfather, Arthur, purchased th' school after it lay abandoned for years. He wanted to erase ev'ryhing that 'ad 'appened in th' past, to make amends for the years of bad blood 'tween the two fam'lies. He invited Peter and his sister to attend as a sort of peace offerin'. Bu' no one ever thought Abby an' Peter would get along like they did. An' I was their friend, too..."

He trailed off, his expression distant.

"Professor Rosen and Peter wrote those letters, didn't they?" I said, sitting up straighter. I'd already speculated that one of the mysterious letter writers was the Professor, all because of my copy of the photograph. On the back was a message with hand-writing that matched perfectly the letter written by "Beatrice". And signed beneath this message was the letter "A". It wasn't definitive proof, but knowing the Professor had a close friend at the school, a young man who had been invited by her grandfather, matched quite well with what "Beatrice" had written and added weight to my theory.

Mr. Crimp glanced sharply at me.

"Eh, wot letters?"

"I've found a few letters scattered around the school. By two people who always used pseudonyms from books and plays."

"Could be, could be," Mr. Crimp said, still watching me very carefully, "Abby 'n Pete loved their books."

"According to the letters," Clive said, "The two pupils in question were uncovering some sort of mystery at Dreycott. Were you involved in anything like that, Mr. Crimp?"

"We were fools," Mr. Crimp said, setting the picture back on the mantel, "Stumblin' into things we 'ad no 'opes of understandin' at th' time. Tryin' to open that blasted door..."

"Door?" Clive cocked his head, "What door?"

"The one 'neath th' cellar. Th' black one."

He slipped something from behind another photograph on his shelf. It was a metal rod, with a faceted blue gem set on the end.

"You know wot this is?"

"We've found two of them already," I said, as he handed it to Clive.

"There are four in all...though wot 'appened to th' last one remains a mys'try to me."

Clive studied the rod, turning it round in his hands.

"They're keys, aren't they?" he said. He traced a faint pattern around the end of the rod, "Look."

I bent my head closer and saw he was right. Etched into the rod was a number of faint indentations.

"They open the black hatch?"

"Keep it," Mr. Crimp said, as he moved back to his chair, "I 'ave no use for it any longer. Though I do not advise you to open that door. It was locked for a reason."

"Why would you give it to us, then?" I asked.

Mr. Crimp gave both of us another long, hard stare, his pipe now stuck in the corner of his mouth.

"Yes," Clive said, finally looking up from the rod, "And why are you telling us all this? Why now?"

Mr. Crimp took another long draft of his pipe and blew out a plume of smoke. We watched it drift to fade among the rafters.

"You four..." he began, his voice quieter, "You're th' only ones I've seen with the gull to stick your noses past th' sleepy veil of this school."

"The sleepy veil?" I asked.

"You know wot I'm talkin' about. As if th' school were under a spell. Teachers tired...pupils ignorant 'cept those silly sash-wearin' brats (no offense)...and Abigail...she's closed 'erself off...hiding in that office of 'ers," Mr. Crimp took his pipe out, "But here you two are, awake as can be. And now...now, you've got to make a decision."

"A decision," Clive repeated, "And what would that be?"

"Now I've told yeh wot I know, there are three options lef' to yeh."

We leaned in closer as the groundsman continued.

"The first and best–leave this school. Go home and never think of it again. Your lives will be forever safer because of it."

Neither of us said anything.

"The second?" Mr. Crimp went on, "Stay at Dreycott and forget everything 'bout the Statue and the Professor and the letters. Slip back into that veil along with your classmates."

"That's no option at all," Clive said.

"And the third option?" I asked.

"The third option," Mr. Crimp chuckled, "We get to the bottom of things 'ere. It will be dangerous, but from 'ere on out, I offer whatever protection I can. You see...as kidlin's the four of yeh is vulnerable to whatever lurks within that school, but you're also able to slip into situations and places this old man could never 'ope to. Not to mention your the cleverest bunch wot I've seen in a long, long time," Mr. Crimp turned to me, "Gettin' on Patrol just so you could learn more 'bout the Professor, eh? Quite a bold idea."

I blushed, not sure how to respond.

"But you know what's going on here," I finally said, "Can't you go to the authorities? At least, if nothing else, they could have the school shut down." My eyes flitted to Clive then back to my lap, "At least that way we could keep anyone else from getting hurt."

Mr. Crimp shook his head again.

"I wish it were that simple, Amelie. But someone powerful is pullin' strings. Believe me, this school won't close its doors 'til whoever's at the top is finished with it. And that baby-palmed privistigator the Professor hired is useless as a flytrap in a guillotine."

"The private investigator, you mean?" Clive corrected, but Mr. Crimp only shot him a dirty look.

"You know, I can't help but think Mr. Harrier might be involved in this 'string pulling' process," I said quietly, "He does have the connections."

"That man is up t' somethin'," Mr. Crimp said, "But I couldn't tell you more than that."

Clive had just opened his mouth to say something when a piercing scream, distant, but unmistakable, rattled through the cottage.

Mr. Crimp was at the door before I had time to even blink, shoving his hat back onto his head.

"Hurry," he barked.

Clive and I jumped to our feet and stumbled after him as he burst through the door. By the time we'd crossed the threshold, he'd already reached the end of the walk leading to his cottage, shooting round the corner. From beyond the trees, I could make out a number of muffled, agitated shouts and cries.

"C'mon!"

Clive hit the path running, kicking up gravel as he went. I hitched up my skirts and dashed after him, thoughts beating in my head in time to my footsteps.

The Statue.

It had to be.

Striking for the third, the final time that term.

Two more victims.

Two more victims.

The three of us raced down the half-lit path, feet catching on thick weeds and divots, the chirps of the crickets turned to shrill screaming, back, back to the front of the school and the lights of the masquerade. As the trees thinned out, I could see that most everyone had gathered in front of the stage, a tightly-packed mass of writhing colors. The crowd was parting to let two figures through, a man dragging someone quite a bit smaller than him up onto stage.

We came out into the open and I stumbled to a stop at the back of the crowd, my labored breath catching in my throat as Jeremy stepped into the spotlight, gripping a microphone in one hand and the arm of Bernard in another.

"Bernard!" The word came out as a strangled yelp.

"This way."

Mr. Crimp was already elbowing his way into the throng. Clive and I followed in his wake as Jeremy began speaking.

"–rything under control. No need to panic. Quiet. Quiet! I've caught the culprit responsible!"

No one seemed much in the mood to listen. All around me pupils and patrollers and teachers and other guests were jostling and pushing and talking at one another and straining to see who exactly Jeremy had ahold of. Someone stumbled into my back, stepped on my foot, knocked the side of my head with their elbow as I pushed past hoop skirts and velvet and frill collars and capes, sweltering, sweat and cologne and perfume thick in my nose, my eyes.

"I am one hundred–no one hundred and one percent certain that this small child is the culprit in question, as astonishing as it seems."

"Let go of me. I haven't done anything!" This was Bernard who punctuated his statement with a number of curses that further riled the crowd. I dodged under the arm of a larger gentleman just as he turned to exclaim to the woman next to him.

"Then what were you doing in that tree at eight thirty-six, the exact moment of the crime, with a pair of binoculars, eh? What else could you've been doing, but ensuring your diabolical prank went off without a hitch!"

We were almost through now, though a number of elderly women near the front were proving obstinate in letting Mr. Crimp through. He finally let out a loud cry and broke through the circle, Clive and I close behind.

"Wot's all this then?" he leapt on stage, shovel at the ready, "Wot do yeh think your doin' wi' 'im?"

Jeremy smirked, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Crimp, I don't know where _you_ were, but a crime has just been committed. Another malicious, cold-blooded prank. And _I_ have finally caught the culprit!"

Bernard was trying his best to wrench his arm from Jeremy's grasp.

"Let him go," Clive said, joining the three on stage, "I can vouch for him. He hasn't done anything."

"Oh? And how do I know you're not involved too?" he shot a glare at me, "And you two, young lady! And to think I trusted the two of you!"

"CALM DOWN OR DO I NEED T' USE THIS!" Amos roared, lifting his shovel higher.

Jeremy let out a shrill burst of a scream, shielding his face with his microphone.

"Enough!"

We all turned to see Professor Rosen break through the crowd, looking furious. Vivian, Trevor, and Stewart were close behind. "That is quite enough, Mr–"

Jeremy put both his hands up, inadvertently letting Bernard go. He wasted no time sliding off the stage and over to me.

"Are you alright?" I whispered.

Bernard nodded, but his attention was still on Jeremy.

"Professor!" the man cried, "Please, don't say my name! You'll blow my cover!"

There was a long silence as everyone looked at one another then back to Jeremy, who was blushing up to his quiff.

"In my office," the Professor said. She turned to Mr. Crimp, "The both of you."

"Yes, Professor," the two men muttered, sheepish as a pair of schoolboys who had been caught throwing rocks at a window. The crowd parted to let the three through.

Professor Xander suddenly appeared on stage next to Clive, his own microphone in hand. His expression was grim, but I could tell he was trying to soften it as he gazed out at the crowd.

"Well, that was...that was exciting. But nothing to trouble ourselves with presently. Everything is under control. Let's bring the band back up, shall we?"

"The band!?" Someone in the crowd shouted, "What about those two children? What's happened with them?"

"This is just like that whole ordeal at the play!" Another person added.

"What did they see!? What really happened?"

"Someone call Scotland Yard!"

"If this is your idea of a joke, then–then, this school is a joke!"

"We're leaving this instant!"

"Outrageous!"

"Unbelieveable!"

"Everyone, please remain calm!" This was Vivian, mounting the stage beside Xander, her voice shrill and slightly shaky, making her sound younger than she really was. "The–the Dreycott Patrol has the situation under con–"

"We want to speak with Professor Rosen, not some prefect!"

And suddenly Professor Xander and Vivian were nearly engulfed by a livid horde now swarming the stage, all talking and gesticulating angrily at once so their voices mixed into a ceaseless, churning mob-cry. Judging by the ages and unfamiliar faces, I guessed most of them were parents and patrons of the school. Just behind them the musicians stood frozen with instruments in hand, glancing at one another, unsure if their job was quite done or not.

Through the crowd, Clive suddenly appeared, hair mussed, bowtie crooked.

"Let's move away from here," he said.

"Just what is going on?" I asked, as the three of us strode away from the stage.

"There," Bernard pointed opposite the path that separated the stage from the tables. I followed his finger to something peculiar. A thin trail twisting through the grass and gravel, staining both a red that glinted under the lanterns.

I felt a sick lurch in the pit of my stomach.

"That's not..."

"Mum!" Clive paled as he turned to grip Bernard's shoulders, "My mother! Is she still here?"

"I don't know," Bernard replied gravely, "Only that two people saw it. Pupils. They came tearing through here screaming not a moment ago, going on about _her_."

He didn't need to elaborate. His brow grew heavier, "They were covered in blood."

"Where are they now?"

"They were taken inside to the infirmary. It didn't appear to be their own blood, anyway. But they were in quite a state."

"I can see why," I said, my mouth going very dry.

"I was watching the whole thing through my binoculars, when that idiot comes over and pulls me out of the tree, drags me up on stage."

"He's the private investigator Rosen hired, isn't he?" I said, shooting a significant look at Clive.

He glanced to the side.

"I think so, yes."

"Dove! Over here!"

The three of us turned to see Cathy Cromwell sweeping towards us wearing a red kimono, Kate puffing along beside her, camera at the ready.

"You three better get out of here," Cathy said in a low voice as she reached us, "People are giving you suspicious looks."

I glanced around and saw she was right. Several at the back of the crowd had turned to stare at the three of us.

"Over here," Cathy said, turning on her heel, "And we can talk."

We followed her down the path and back over to the fountain, still trickling peacefully, guarded by Hyacinth.

"Ironic place for a meeting," she quipped.

"I should find my mother, first," Clive said, looking about anxiously, "Make sure–"

"She already left half an hour ago, don't worry," Cathy said.

Clive blinked.

"Oh? What? How–?"

Cathy examined her nails.

"I keep track of these things."

"What about Gemma?" I said, "We should find her."

"Hold up," Cathy said, "I'll have Kate retrieve her for you." She looked down her nose at Kate, "Kate, retrieve their friend, Gemma."

Kate saluted.

"Right-o, boss. And how about I get you some caviar and champagne while I'm at it, eh?"

"We're twitching with laughter," Cathy replied.

She whipped back to the three of us, pulling out a sleek black notepad as Kate trudged off. Clive already had his own notebook out.

"Before we talk about the Statue," Cathy said, "The meeting? Were you able to find out anything?"

Clive proceeded to give a brief account of the exchange between the Professor and Mr. Harrier for Cathy and Bernard. When he was finished, Cathy closed her eyes, clasping a hand to her chin as Clive himself would have done in a similar situation.

"Not at all what I was expecting...I'll have to stew on it...yes..." She reopened her eyes to study Clive, "You kept your end of the bargain. I had my doubts, but you came through."

"Yes, well," Clive said, "We have answers we're searching for, as well."

"Your investigation of the Statue," Cathy said, "Did you have any idea it would strike tonight?"

"We had a hunch," he replied.

"How much do you know about it? The Statue, I mean?" I suddenly asked Cathy, more out of curiosity then anything else. I would've thought she'd be all over the story of the Statue, writing articles about it left and right, but she seemed to be rather nonchalant about it all.

"I've gathered as much as you four, undoubtedly," Cathy sniffed, "But the Professor has made her wishes concerning the Daily Dreycott's content very explicit. She would nix the paper otherwise."

"Yet here you are gathering information on the Professor's private affairs." Bernard said.

Cathy finally appeared to notice him, arching an eyebrow.

"Who's your date, then, the grim reaper?" she asked.

"No, we broke up last week," Bernard replied without pause, "On account of my excessive morbidity."

Cathy allowed herself a thin smile.

"You don't miss a trick, do you? At any rate, I'm investigating the Professor for reasons other than my paper."

Her features had tightened. "There's more then one plot going on at this school. But anyway, Rosen's going to have a hard time wiggling her way out of this one. I'm surprised someone hasn't called the police."

"Who were the pupils who saw it?" Clive asked.

"Ezra Weathers and Bella Tome. Year 12." Cathy rolled her eyes, "From what I gathered, they were off snogging near the hydrangeas when it stepped out of nowhere, casual as you like. No one else was around."

"Did the Statue say anything?" I asked.

"Only they would know. I was on the cusp of digging up some dirt on Mr. Boggs when they both came tearing through here smeared in blood. Phony, mind. I took a sample and it was easy enough to tell on closer expection. And then a few minutes later Mr. Pity Party P.I. dragged your friend here up on stage."

"That's it, then," Clive said, "Six people saw it this term just like the Statue predicated during the play."

"Ezra, Bella, Archibald, Juliet...but who were the other two?" Cathy said, frowning.

Clive, Bernard, and I glanced at each other. Before we could say anything however, Kate came back down the path with Gemma who was looking rather sick and pale.

"Gemma! Are you alright?" I asked.

"I've been better. But what's this about blood and Bernard being a criminal? I was stuck in one of the tents while Miss Bijou helped me with my makeup. We heard some sort of commotion and then a bunch of people blocked the entrance and we couldn't get out."

We quickly filled Gemma in on what had happened and watched her eyes grow huge.

"That's it then. The third time. Just like we thought. And wow," Gemma ran a hand through her hair which had somehow come loose in all the excitement, "That Jeremy guy is the private investigator! I never would have guessed!"

There was already color returning to her cheeks and my worry over her subsided.

"Hate to break this up," Cathy said, "But I've got places to be, angry mob to interview." She turned to Clive, "So how about it, Dove? I'm still looking for another reporter to keep the Daily Dreycott up and going."

"You know, I think I will," Clive said and stuck out his hand without hesitation, "On one condition."

"Oh?" Cathy said.

"You promise not to write any more flattering articles about me."

"Hmph," Cathy shook his hand, "Fair enough. Though that issue did sell-out."

She turned, Kate right at her heels.

"You'll start next term. I think up some assignments for you. Oh, and your bowtie is crooked. Might want to fix that."

"Cheerio. Stay out of trouble, kids," Kate said. She jabbed a thumb at Cathy and rolled her eyes behind her back.

"Are you sure about working for her?" I asked when they had turned the corner at the end of the path. I still wasn't sure myself what I thought about Cathy or what she was really up to. Only that she was definitely up to something.

"Don't worry," Clive said, "I don't fully trust her, but this is an opportunity I can't afford to pass up."

Gemma whistled, resting her hands behind her head.

"What a night," she started, "Oh! I almost forgot! How did the mysterious meeting go?"

Again, Clive and I explained the whole eavesdropping business, but this time we continued on, our voices dropping to include the encounter with Felix and our talk with Mr. Crimp.

It was a lot to take in and even as Bernard and Gemma processed the light that Mr. Crimp had thrown on some of the mysteries at Dreycott, I could feel my own mind still grappling with all the new information we were sharing. Mr. Crimp had been friends with both Professor Rosen and a Dreycott, Peter Dreycott, two individuals who'd possibly written the letters I'd found. They'd tried opening the black hatch, but what had happened then? Peter had died somehow...young just like Hyacinth...and now someone at Dreycott seemed bent on dredging up the past...

"The Rosens and the Dreycotts..." Gemma said when we had finished and started back down the path together,"Abigail and Peter...it sounds like a Romeo and Juliet story to me."

"Ugh, please don't mention the name Juliet," I replied.

"Really, Mudget. We get solid information and all you can do is make references to romantic drivel?" Bernard snapped.

Gemma folded her arms and turned up her nose.

"Well, well. But look where you are. You promised you wouldn't step a toe at this masquerade and now you're here. So that wins all the arguments."

"I was dragged against my will," Bernard retorted, "And now I think I'll take my leave. I've had enough of this nonsense."

He pushed past us, grumbling under his breath as he strode away.

"Poor TW, I think that was all a bit much for him, " Gemma said, as she watched him go.

I sighed.

"Well..what should we do? Try and speak with Ezra and Bella?"

Clive frowned.

"I don't think we'll have much luck with that tonight."

"Yeah, and looks like we won't get to enjoy the evening, either," Gemma added, "I think the party's over."

She was right. The appearance of the Statue had drained all the life from the festivities. People were headed back through the pergola now, walking rigidly, murmuring to each other in small groups, expressions serious and withdrawn, careful to avoid the trail of blood. There was still quite a few pestering Professor Xander with questions, but their initial fury had died down, replaced with sober conversation that was impossible to hear. The caterers were already packing up their spread as pupils looked on, whispering, some shooting glances in our direction.

"The musicians are still here," Gemma said, casually throwing an arm around either of us."There's still time for one last dance, eh? I'll go grab some punch, slip a few quid to the violinist, and you two have at it."

Clive and I glanced at each other, only to look away just as quickly.

"You know," I said, slipping out from under Gemma's arm, "We should investigate the place the Statue appeared, is what we really should do. Look for clues."

"Excellent idea," Clive added, right beside me.

"Hey!" Gemma stomped her foot, "Hey! You two come back here! You bunch of boring, bland, stodgy-podgy, stuffy-puffy–"

She had picked up her skirts and was now hurrying after us now with a murderous glint in her eye.

Clive nudged my shoulder.

"Shall we make a run for it?"

We sprinted all the way over to the hydrangeas, Gemma hot on our heels.

This burst of energy between the three of us quickly faded, however, after an intense search of the bushes and nearby grounds proved fruitless. By the time we finally returned to the dorms, round nine-thirty, I was thoroughly exhausted, not only from all the running, but from the sheer weight of everything that had happened and all we'd learned. Before crawling into bed, I saw out my window that most of the lights had been extinguished. The few that remained allowed for a swift cleaning up and taking down of the tables, the tents, the stage, and all the decor. And then even these went out and Dreycott's lawn was swallowed in darkness just as I drifted off.

We never did get to speak with Ezra and Bella. As patrons of the school, Mr. and Mrs. Weathers and Mr. Tome had all been present at the masquerade and had witnessed the terrified flight of their children. Needless to say, both families packed and left for home the very next day, leaving only murmers of possible lawsuits. Rumors ran rampant about what had really happened, but that was all they were. If the Statue had given the two any sort of message, it remained unknown.

There was little time for the four of us to worry about this, however, or really any of the masquerade's events, as disturbing and puzzling as they were. All the mysteries fell wayside as we were suddenly hit with the last few weeks of the term like a load of bricks to the stomach. These went by incredibly fast and were crammed with mad note-taking, studying, essay writing, and finals. All quite rigorous, but despite the fact that I only enjoyed exams and studying as much as the next person, I couldn't deny that they provided a sort of bastion of stability and calm in contrast to all that had happened at the masquerade. A tonic that kept my mind focused and stopped it from wandering.

The last week of school was dedicated to one-on-one meetings with the Professor, a tradition I was a bit surprised to learn about, seeing as Rosen always seemed to avoid interacting with her pupils when possible. These meetings were brief, meant only as an opportunity to discuss the exams, final marks, and future plans. I went into my meeting on the very last day of term feeling confident in my scores, which only made me turn to worrying: about the masquerade, about the chess tournament, swiftly approaching, and about the Professor herself.

"You seem distracted," Rosen said when all the terse formalities were out of the way.

She seemed her usual unreadable self. Cold and composed. Any trace of the fear she'd displayed during her meeting with Mr. Harrier had vanished.

"The chess tournament," I replied, shifting slightly in the rigid-backed chair. "It's only a week away, now."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Grambler is quite proud of you, you know. You should have seen the case he made for allowing you to participate."

"So, I _can_ participate?" Mr. Grambler was head of chess club, but I knew the Professor had the final say.

The Professor dipped her head slightly.

"Of course. You've proven yourself to be an exceptional pupil this year, Amelia. In your academics and your dedication to the patrol. This chess tournament would be the icing on the cake, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose," I said, my face growing a bit hot. I had been somewhat of a teacher's pet in primary school as well, though not by choice. Teachers simply liked how quiet and studious I was in comparison to how rowdy some of the other children could be. But I never expected to become Rosen's.

"I'll be at the tournament, naturally, as will Mr. Grambler and some of your fellow pupils, I presume."

"Yes."

I wanted the meeting to be over now. We'd already discussed exams and my plan to return to Dreycott next year if possible. But the Professor seemed to be stalling. I glanced at the clock, hoping she'd catch the gesture, but her eyes were now on the folder which contained all my relevant academic information.

"Hm. Have we gone over your attendance?"

"Yes. But Professor..." I finally said, not entirely sure what I was doing. I had suddenly remembered something she had said to me when she'd interviewed me for Patrol, something peculiar which struck me now as important, "Is there something you've forgotten?"

"Forgotten?" The Professor looked at me sharply, "How do you mean?"

"S-something you wanted to ask me?"

There was a long pause as the Professor's eyes returned to the folder. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.

"It's not something I've forgotten. More like something I've realized," she looked up, her expression softening slightly "You see...you remind me of myself when I was a girl."

"O-oh."

I hadn't expected that.

The Professor's eyes shot to the door before focusing once more on me. Just as Ms. Goodson had done at the beginning of the year...as if she was afraid someone was listening in...

"I had a small group of friends just like you. We had our share of adventures here at Dreycott. Unfortunately...not all of them ended happily. That's why..." Her hand moved to fiddle with her spider pendant, "I ask that you carefully consider your decision to return to Dreycott, Amelia. Carefully consider your decision to remain on Patrol. History...it has a habit of repeating itself."

I didn't say anything. I felt if I spoke it would all come out, all the questions I wanted to ask her, about the hatch, about the letters, about Mr. Harrier, and her own murky past.

"I've seen you talking with Mr. Crimp," the Professor continued, "He's an old friend. Trustworthy. But please don't go looking for trouble, Amelia. Your friends..."

The Professor trailed off, her brow creasing

"They doesn't have anything to do with the Statue. I know they don't," I said, thinking she was referring to Clive and possibly Bernard.

"No," The Professor agreed, but her expression had shifted. Her eyes now shone with a desperation, a terrible, silent plead that made me grow cold all over,"I only meant keep them out of trouble. Especially–" her voice faltered, "I know I can count on you for that, Amelia."

She stood and suddenly her countenance was a restrained mask once more.

"Oh, look at the time. You probably need to finish your packing."

She held out a hand and I shook it.

"Have a lovely holiday, Miss Ruth."

She smiled and I did my best to return it.

"You too, Professor."

I was still mulling over this odd exchange when I returned to my room, only to find my belongings scattered everywhere. A pair of legs stuck out from under the bed, bare feet waving in the air. They could only belong to one person.

"Gemma?" I knelt down beside her, "Er, what's going on?"

With a grunt, Gemma scrambled out.

"Amelia! There you are!" She stood, dusting herself off. She was already decked out for summer, wearing capris and a halterneck top, in shades of purple, naturally. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and there was a fresh glimmer in her eye that had only just returned after the weight of exams had lifted. "Just making sure I didn't miss anything. I'm helping you pack."

I gazed at the tangled clothing, books, and school supplies strewn about the floor. I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd told me a troupe of monkeys had broken in.

"This... is helping?"

"I work best in chaos," Gemma got up and began tossing things into my trunk, "Besides, I'm already done with my room. I'm bored. But also excited," She grabbed my hand, " _Aagh_! I can't wait!"

I smiled. The four of us staying with Clive in London for a whole week. It would be interesting, that was for sure. Alright... if I had to admit it, I was a bit excited, myself. I was very keen to see more of the city and to meet Clive's adopted mother. Speaking of Clive...I glanced at the clock. He said our ride would be here promptly at two and it was almost one already. I supposed I would need Gemma's help after all.

"So, how did your meeting go?" Gemma asked, as she continued chucking things across the room.

"Fine," I walked over to my desk and pulled out my chair, sitting down heavily, "The Professor was acting a bit odd, though. Like–like she wanted to tell me something."

"I can't believe how long you were in there. I think I'm her least favorite pupil or something 'cause mine lasted for five seconds and she would barely look at me."

"She has a lot on her mind," I said. I opened my top desk drawer. A heavy king piece rolled forward and my fingers closed around it. Granddad's, the one he had given me before I'd left for Dreycott. I'd kept it tucked safely in this drawer throughout the entire year, not wanting to risk it almost getting whisked away again. I slipped into my pocket. Of course I didn't really believe in good luck, but I still wanted to keep it close during the coming days. I was looking forward to when I could return it to granddad so we could play with his favorite chess set again.

Giving the chess piece one last squeeze, I set about cleaning out my desk drawers. For the next hour or so, Gemma and I worked at a fairly swift pace, packing and cleaning up my room. When we were finished, I stood in the doorway giving everything one last go-over. It seemed such a small and plain space. I could hardly wait to sleep in my larger bedroom back home.

Gemma patted the wall.

"We've had some good times in this matchbox. Hopefully, you'll get the same one next year!"

I turned my head so Gemma couldn't see my frown. I didn't want to spoil her good mood. She was already so sure I'd win the tournament.

"We should get going," I said.

I picked up my trunk and Gemma took my smaller luggage. We carried them out into the hallway which was busy with girls hugging, saying goodbyes, and hauling things over to the stairs.

Madge waved at us as she headed down the hall with her friend Harper.

"See you at the tourney, Amelia!"

We waved back.

"Have a great summer, Amy! Gemma!"

I turned to see Ursula set down her own trunk right outside her door.

She came over to us.

"Hope the tournament goes well."

"Thanks."

I noticed how quickly her smile faded. It had become a common habit since the masquerade. I wished I were actually adept at comforting people, but all I could do was pull at my sock as I worked up a few feeble words.

"Er, are you...? I mean...about Juliet..."

Ursula shrugged.

"We haven't really spoken much, but...what can you do? At least she seems happy."

"With Felix," Gemma scoffed, "I still can't believe it. I'm really sorry, Ursula."

"Don't be. We've known each other practically since we were babies, so... I guess I assumed we'd always be friends. But you never know people as well as you think. I mean, it's even happened to Vivian..."

"Oh?" I couldn't help but be curious.

Ursula averted her eyes.

"I shouldn't talk about it. But she and Cathy used to be close. Then they had some kind of row and now they've both moved on. I think I can do the same."

Her smile returned as she picked up her trunk.

"I'll keep myself busy this summer. Anyway, are you two going down?"

We followed her down the stairs and over to Dreycott's main entrance. Usually a quiet area, it was now lively with pupils, parents, and a number of teachers along with a great deal of luggage piled in heaps here and there.

"My stuff's already outside," Gemma said, "Clive helped me when you were in your meeting. But where's he gotten off too? It must be about time."

"Maybe he's outside waiting?"

Saying goodbye to Ursula, who had spotted some other friends, we headed out through the main doors and down the wide stone steps. Dreycott's long drive was clogged with cars and buses, luggage stacks, and even more pupils. The day, warm and clear, seemed to have imbued everyone with a lively energy that I hadn't seen at the school since the masquerade. Even Dreycott's gloom couldn't stifle the excitement of summer.

Right as I set my suitcases down at the bottom of the steps, a car door slammed, followed by a loud voice:

"Gemmy!"

I turned to see Gemma's father enveloping his daughter in an enormous hug.

"All set?" he said, giving me a quick smile and a wink over Gemma's shoulder.

"Yeah," Gemma wriggled out of her dad's arms, "My luggage is right over there. You can take all of them except the little purple one."

I helped Gemma and her dad load her luggage into the back of his car.

"See you in a week then, Gemmy," Mr. Mudget poked his daughter's glasses up the bridge of her nose, "Best behavior now."

"Da- _aad_ , I'm not Davey!" Gemma replied, giving her father a mock withering look.

"No," Mr. Mudget kissed the top of his daughter's head, "You're worse. Whoops, better skedaddle while the going's good."

He folded himself into his car and with a final wave, took off down the drive.

"Hmph."

I turn to see Bernard had materialized beside me, arms folded, two black suitcases at his feet. He, too, had changed out of his school uniform, into a baggy jumper of all things. Knowing Bernard, he was probably wearing it out of pure spite.

"Oh, hello, Bernard. Where's Clive?"

He tilted his head back toward the stairs. Clive had just exited the building hauling his own large trunk.

"Need help?" I called as he staggered down the steps, panting. He was wearing shorts and an olive green button-up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

"No, I've got it," He set his trunk down and wiped his brow. "You?"

"All set."

Clive nodded, before turning to scan the drive. His eye caught something and the hint of a smile tugged at his lips, "Ah, there she is. This way."

Picking up our luggage, we followed him to where a dark blue car, a rather classy and expensive model, had just pulled up. A woman wearing a trim suit, cap, and white gloves, her hair pulled back, stepped out. She tipped her cap at Clive.

" _Dobryj den'_ , Master Dove," She had a light accent. Russian, most likely. Her eyes locked onto Bernard, Gemma, and I,"And company. I'm glad I decided to run background checks on the three of you."

"Good to see you too, Sofia," Clive turned to the three of us, "This is our chauffeur, Sofia Vetrova."

"Charmed," Sofia said, again tipping her cap.

Gemma clasped her hands.

"Nice to meet you! Gosh, you never told us you had a chauffeur, Clive!"

Clive scratched his head.

"Oh, well, I mean, I didn't know...er..."

Sofia chuckled.

"Master Dove is nothing if not private about his affairs," Her attention suddenly shifted, her eyes narrowing, "But maybe not private enough. The decrepit vagrant, he is coming, too?"

We all turned to see Amos Crimp standing behind us, rubbing his hand under his nose.

"Mr. Crimp!"

I hadn't seen the groundsman since the night of the masquerade. We'd all been too busy to go looking for him.

"Amelie," He nodded at me, "Came t' see th' four of yeh off."

His eyes darted over to Sofia whose hand had gone to something clipped to the back of her belt.

"Would like to talk wi' you all in prive', if the lady wouldn't mind?"

"We'll only be a moment," Clive said.

Sofia's hand dropped to her side.

"By all means."

As she started putting our luggage in the trunk of the car, Mr. Crimp drew us into a huddle.

"Thought about wot I said?" he said in a low voice, to me and Clive specifically.

"Of course," Clive replied, matching his tone.

"Good. We'll talk more when yeh get back. I'll keep an eye round things here, make sure there's no funny business. For now...try not to die this summer. Plenty of chances for that nex' term."

With a sniff, the old man turned and ambled away.

"That man...he is friend of yours, Clive?" Sofia said, heaving the last of the luggage in.

"Er, something like that," Clive said.

"Eh. Why am I not surprised."

She slammed the trunk.

"Alright. In you go, you four. We don't want to keep Madame Dove waiting."

"Oh! Oh, Clive!" Gemma was practically hopping up and down, "Is it alright if I sit in front?"

Clive chuckled as Bernard rolled his eyes.

"Of course," Clive said, "If that's alright with you, Sofia?"

"Da. I think I had better keep eye on this one."

Gemma grinned.

"I bet you're Clive's bodyguard too, aren't you? You could probably kill me in ten different ways, right?"

Sofia winked at her.

"Maybe eleven."

We loaded into the car, Gemma sitting in the passenger's seat up front, while Bernard sat between Clive and I in the back.

Then we were headed down the drive, pulling out and through the iron gates. I twisted in my seat belt, watching the looming gray buildings grow increasingly smaller until they disappeared from view behind the trees that lined the avenue.

Free from Dreycott for seven weeks, at the least. I already felt lighter, a touch of buoyancy that nearly reached giddiness. That curious, irresistible anticipation that only summer could tease out. True, I still had the tournament to worry about, but being out from Dreycott's shadow made it seem smaller. I settled back into my seat, touching the lump in my pocket to ensure my granddad's king was still there.

For the next half hour, I busied myself with the window, taking in the London sights. Really the only other glimpse of the city I'd ever gotten was when I'd taken the bus to and from the train station during holidays. This, time, however, I was headed in a different direction, driving through what seemed a living mural unfolding as we passed straight through the heart of the city. To either side, stone office buildings rose up amidst red brick flats, domed museums, theatres, shops, bridges, restaurants, monuments, fountains, and airships in vivid reds and muted grays passing overhead the jumble of spires, bell-towers, and chimneys. It was mind-boggling how it went on and on. And the number of people. Afternoon commuters hurrying down the sidewalk, tourists on holiday snapping photos and pointing at signs, streetside vendors selling fruit and flowers and souvenirs, constables assisting with traffic. So much and yet it all ran smoothly...or mostly smoothly, I thought, as Sofia honked at another car that pulled out in front of her.

Gemma and Clive had both grown up in the city, but even they were rather occupied by the sights. Being at Dreycott sometimes made one feel as though one were in a bubble, after all. Gemma kept a steady stream of narrative going the whole time, though I couldn't quite tell if Sofia was amused or irritated. Clive, meanwhile, pointed out a few places of interest to me, while Bernard, stuck in the middle, took out a severe looking paperback and shut everything else out.

Eventually we left the bustle of downtown London behind and reached a quieter, older, residential part of the city. Tall trees lined the avenues and the houses and their accompanying properties grew larger and more grand.

Finally, we turned, passing through another set of gates, smaller than Dreycott's and covered in vines, and pulled up a smooth paved drive. At the very end stood a stately white manor surrounded by well-tended gardens and trimmed shrubbery. Clive's home, I thought as I blinked up at it. I never imagined it would be quite so...big. Apparently, Gemma felt similarly.

"Clive! That's your–this is your–!?" she cried, head stuck out the window.

"Here we go," Bernard groaned, "No filter. I'll be blushing for her the entire week."

Gemma pulled her head back into the car and twisted round in her seat, grinning.

"I make you blush, Trewinkle?"

"This is exactly what I'm talking about. Do you even hear yourself, Mudget? You actually think that someone like myself would ever..."

"It's going to be a long week," I mouthed to Clive behind Bernard's back. He smirked.

Before Gemma could respond to whatever Bernard was rambling about, however, Sofia pulled into the roundabout at the end of the drive and came to a stop.

"Here we are," she said, glancing in the rearview mirror, "Dove Manor."


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

_**The Story So Far. . .**_

 _Amos Crimp reveals what he knows about the Statue, as well as some information regarding his own past. His conversation with Clive and Amelia is interrupted when the Statue makes a third appearance at the masquerade and creates a panic. Several weeks following the incident, the term comes to a close and Amelia, Bernard, and Gemma leave Dreycott to stay with Clive for the week. . ._

 **Chapter Twenty-Three**

There's something peculiar about visiting a friend's house for the very first time. You've known the one, but not the other, until you're invited over and the two are slapped together like a sandwich. The friend influences your opinion of the house, the house influences your opinion of the friend, and you end up seeing both in a different light than you would have otherwise.

As I stepped out of the car and stood squinting up at Dove Manor, my mind was already busy sticking Clive inside and shuffling around everything I knew about him, as much as I wished it wouldn't. Of course, I had already known Clive's family was well-off, but the house before me was quite a bit beyond what I had expected. How to reconcile the shrewd, tireless boy I knew, who seemed to live by wits and close-scrapes alone, with something so imposing, so venerable and grand?

If I was honest, the place was more than that–it was intimidating. Perhaps that was why it reminded me so of Dreycott, despite its relatively compact size.

Rows of latticed windows, set in a patchwork of cream-colored stone and swaths of velvety climbing ivy, gazed down at me. The highest windows formed peaked dormers, so it looked as though the manor wore a crown. Now that I was up close, I could see clearly the age of the place. The walls were weathered, the chimneys chipped, the roof beginning to flake. Yet far from making the manor look neglected, these signs spoke of a long and rich history, the sort of house that only grew larger and more esteemed with age, rising to reflect the sunlight.

"Well!"

I turned just in time to see two individuals round the corner of the house, a man and the elderly woman he was pushing in a wheelchair.

The man was middle-aged, his most striking feature his thick beard which nearly covered his entire face, brown like a sparrow's feather, but wooly as a lion's mane. He wore a sturdy pair of glasses above his long nose and a tidy beige jacket and cap. Although it was the woman who had spoken, my attention was drawn to him first because I had the startling thought that he might be Clive's adopted father. But Clive had never spoken of a father. Not to mention, he looked quite a bit younger than the woman he was pushing.

This woman, without a doubt, was Clive's mother, Constance Dove. The remarkably straight set of a back that looked like it wanted to hunch, the manner in which her fragile, bejeweled hands firmly gripped the armrests of her chair, the simple, yet elegant cut of her yellow dress, the steady gaze beneath the wide brim of her sun-hat; everything about the woman marked her as the Lady of the house. It was hard to say her age for certain, but I knew she had to be older than granddad. Her figure was soft and round and quite filled out, while her smile, warm and proud, creased every wrinkle that lined her features, each as fine as the filament of a spider's web, until her eyes had nearly disappeared beneath the folds.

"Here we all are at last," The bearded man had brought Constance's chair to a halt, allowing her to gaze squarely up at the four of us. "I'm simply–"

Constance cut herself off, her eyes widening as she blinked at Clive in surprise. "Goodness, Clive, I think you've grown since Easter. Keep on like this and my poor neck might snap next time I try to look up at you."

"We'll just have to find you a taller chair, then," Clive said, smiling as he stooped to exchange a gentle embrace with his mother.

After a moment, she pulled back, resting one hand on his shoulder, while the other busily fussed with his bangs. "And I think _another_ trim is in order. Forget your legs, your hair grows faster than Shipley's marigolds."

" _Mum_ ," A pink flush had crept up Clive's collar. Next to me, Gemma stifled a snicker. "Later?"

Constance's hands returned to her lap.

"Alright, dear, but don't think the subject's forgotten."

"Don't worry, young sir. I'll think up a distraction next time she brings it up," the bearded man said with a wink, reaching forward to clap a hand on Clive's shoulder, "Good to have you back for the summer."

"And good to know I'll have an ally for the next few months," Clive said. By the tone of his voice, I could tell he was grinning. "You and Spring are both well, I hope?"

"Yes, but we'll talk more later," The man's gaze turned to the car parked behind us, where Sofia was busy unloading the trunk, "Think I'll go assist Miss Vetrova with that luggage, while you five get acquainted. If that's alright with you, Madame."

"Certainly, Cogg. Thank you. But we _will_ talk more about this conspiracy to distract me later. I simply can't have you boys ganging up on me."

As he passed, Cogg tipped his cap to us.

"Lookin' forward to meeting all three of you. Takes a load off my mind to know young sir has friends at school who can keep him out of trouble."

He headed for the car while Constance gripped her armrests once more, returning her attention to Bernard, Gemma, and I.

There was something about her gaze that made me want to stand up straighter and make sure my ribbons weren't crooked. But there was a kindness to her expression as well. I could already feel a bit of my shyness drop away.

"I was very much looking forward to meeting the three of you at the masquerade," she began, "Though I don't believe it occurred to Clive to introduce you."

She gave him that look that only a mother knew how to perfect.

"Sorry," Clive said, hastily sweeping back his bangs, "It was a busy night."

"Well, nevermind that, you're here now and I'm so very glad to have you all."

Gemma couldn't contain herself any longer.

"It's so nice to meet you, Mrs–Mum–um, Madame Dove! You have a very lovely house– I mean, mansion. And thank you so much for having us! We–we'll, er, pay you for your troubles!"

Bernard shut his eyes, seeming to be in some amount of pain, but Constance only chuckled.

"Please, no need for formalities. We'll be spending the week together, after all. Call me Constance, Gemma."

Gemma's eyes widened as her mouth dropped open.

"You already know my name?"

Constance hooked a finger to her round chin, cocking her head.

"You're Helena, are you not?"

Now it was Gemma's turn to blush.

"You saw–you saw me at the masquerade?"

"A very enjoyable performance. You know, I had the pleasure of seeing _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ at the Globe several years back. Despina Blaise was the lead. I'd be lying if I said you didn't remind me of her just a bit. That genuine enthusiasm. Not as many actresses have it as you'd think."

"D-despina Blaise?" Gemma looked as if she might pass out.

"Yes, perhaps I can persuade her to come and speak to the drama club at Dreycott sometime."

"S-speak at Dreycott. _Despina Blaise_!?" Gemma touched a hand to her forehead, wobbling slightly, "I might swoon."

Bernard took a noticeable step away from her.

"I'm not catching you."

Constance cocked an eye at him.

"Aha, and you must be Mr. Trewinkle, correct? Clive tells me you have quite the penchant for psychology."

"That's right," Bernard said. A note of guarded surprised had crept into his voice

"We have a small, but varied selection of books pertaining to the topic in the library. When I heard you had an interest, I decided to brush up and ended up reading a treatise by one Dr. Ami Neesa about a new model that offers quite a fascinating explanation for how short-term memory works. I daresay I only understood half, but wonderfully maddening the human mind and how little we know about it."

Bernard opened his mouth, but for once he was speechless.

Finally, Constance turned to me.

"And you must be Amelia, the chess player," she smiled, "You're the one Clive is always going on about."

"Mum!" Clive looked like he wanted to sink into the shrubs behind him.

"I'm only telling the truth. Anyway, we've set up a lovely corner in the library for you. Chess set, books on the subject, I even got Cogg to track down a genuine chess clock if you'd like to practice with it."

"Thank you," I said, realizing my shyness hadn't left me as much as I'd thought. I wished I could say something more, but nothing came.

Constance took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. The bones beneath her veiny skin felt so light and delicate I was afraid of gripping too hard lest her hand shatter like a china teacup.

"Think nothing of it, my dear. Clive's told me how talented you are. It's the least I can do to help you prepare for the tournament. But let's do go inside now and get you three settled in."

We started for the front doors, Clive pushing Constance. Sofia and Cogg had already gone ahead with the luggage.

"We have the rooms all prepared," Constance was saying, her voice gaining an echo as we stepped past the manor's threshold and into a spacious, columned foyer. White marble tiling led to a grand oak staircase. A short, plump woman, wearing a pink knit cardigan, her lavender-gray hair in a rounded bouffant, was just coming down the steps, list in hand.

"Ah, and here's Spring, punctual, as always."

Constance removed her sun-hat, revealing a shock of white hair. She placed it in her lap just as the woman bustled over to us.

"Oh, goodness! You're all here already!" She suddenly caught sight of Clive and her harried expression softened as she clasped his hand in hers, "Another school year come and gone, young sir! Wonderful to have you back!"

"And good to see you, Spring."

Spring's eyes narrowed.

"Hmm. I'll have to get my scissors out. You're in need of a trim."

Clive frowned, but her attention had already shifted.

"And these must be your friends. Delighted to meet you all. I'm Spring, housekeeper. You've met my husband, Cogg, already?"

After we had introduced ourselves, Constance continued,

"Would you show Gemma and Amelia to their rooms, Spring? I'm sure they must be rather tired and would like to freshen up."

"Certainly, Madame. I was just coming back from checking them over," Spring turned to Gemma and I, "If you'd like to follow me, girls?"

"We'll meet up for supper at six," Clive said.

"Yes, we're having it out on the veranda," Constance added, "To celebrate the start of the holiday."

"Alright, but you boys better not start eating without us," Gemma said, then to Constance, "You should see your son when they serve Sunday roast at Dreycott."

"Oh, I'm well aware of his hearty appetite," Constance replied with a chuckle, "He is a growing boy, after all!"

"Bernard, shall I show you your room?" Clive droned, faced pressed into his hand in an attempt to block out the blush that was now spreading to his cheeks.

"Alright, girls, this way."

With amused waves to Constance and the boys, we followed Spring up the stairs. I noticed Gemma was nearly shaking, as if in the throes of a caffeine high.

"Are you alright?" I muttered.

"I feel like I'm at a five-star hotel!" she whispered fiercely, "And can you believe Constance knows Despina Blaise? She's amazing!"

"Despina Blaise?" Spring said, looking up from her list, "That's right, Madame Dove has friends in many circles. Oh, but she _is_ one of my favorite stars!"

And suddenly the two were engaged in a lively discussion on actresses, plays, and celebrity scandals I found quite bewildering.

I focused my attention, instead, on the hallway Spring was now leading us down, or rather, the portraits lining the walls. They seemed arranged according to age, with the oldest ones (I could tell by the medieval clothing), nearest the stairs, while the more recent ones continued down the latter half of the hallway.

Then there was one of Constance herself, young, vivacious, and auburn-haired, wearing a gossamer robin's egg gown, a book in her lap. The kind expression she wore was the same one I'd only just seen and there was a sharpness to her smile that reminded me of Clive.

Speaking of Clive, the last portrait in the hallway was of him and Constance. It must've been a few years old now. Clive looked maybe twelve or thirteen, dressed in a smart suit, his pale yellow tie the same color as Constance's dress. He had his arm around his mother and I'd never seen a brighter smile on his face. Still...

I stopped a moment to study the portrait. Whoever had painted it was clearly a master. They had managed to capture a faint sadness in Clive's eyes that I thought was there one moment, then only in my imagination the next.

"Here we are," Spring had stopped in front of one of the many doors that lined the hallway. She turned the brass knob, "Gemma, this is where you'll be staying. Out of all our guest rooms, this one is my personal favorite!"

Beyond was an airy bedroom arranged with decor and colors inspired by the seaside. The walls and bedspread were a pale blue, while soft paintings of sail boats and tide pools hung from the walls. There were bottles of shells on the dresser and a lamp made of blue-green sea glass. A porthole shaped window looked out on the gardens behind the manor. Gemma's purple suitcase lay on top of the bed, waiting to be unpacked

" _Ahhhh_ ," Gemma slowly spun around the middle of the room, a nearly crazed glint in her eye, "This is... _ahhhhaheh_."

"Oh my. Do you not like it?" Spring said with a frown.

"No! I love it!" Gemma gushed, "It's better than a five-star hotel! It's a room fit for Poseidon!"

Spring chuckled with relief.

"I'll send the compliment along to Madame Dove. Please make yourself right at home," She turned to me, "Your room is right across the way, Miss Amelia. Madame was very specific about which room you should get."

I followed her back out into the hallway as Gemma darted around, examining everything, shouting out exclamations to no one in particular.

"Whoa, an anchor! A real anchor! It does look a bit precarious up there.. . Wha–? This is the biggest shell I've ever seen–" There was a shattering sound, "Uhh...whoops."

"Er," Spring glanced back at Gemma before placing her hand on the doorknob to my room, "I'll check on that later. Anyway, Vera Le Chance stayed here once."

"The Belgium chess champion?"

"The very same."

Spring opened the door. The room was similar in size to Gemma's, but instead of pale blues and greens, there was antique, mahogany furniture and a four-poster bed with a red satin canopy. An impressive grandfather clock stood guard in one corner, while in another was a small table with a chess set and plush armchair.

"I do hope you find it comfortable," Spring said, "But let me know if there's anything you need. Supper is at six, on the veranda. It's down the stairs, through the door on the right, pass through the dining room, and you should see it."

"Thank you," I said for the second time that day, feeling dazed.

Spring left us to our unpacking, which didn't take me long. Since we were only there for a week, I removed the minimum number of outfits I'd need and tucked them away in the empty set of drawers. After that, I had a good look around the room, merely because it was all so fascinating: from the vermilion poppies in a vase on the nightstand, to the painting of a train station in some far-off city, blanketed in a golden haze of smoke and sunlight.

Eventually, I made my way across the hall to Gemma's room to see how she was settling in. I found her sprawled on her stomach across her bed, face sunk into a down pillow large enough to rival a snowbank.

"Gemma?"

" _Mmphf_ ," Gemma lifted her head, groaning, "This room...I wish I could make myself cry. Do you think Constance would mind if I took this bed back home with me? It's like sleeping on...on the softest loaf of white bread or –like if white bread were a cloud of swan feathers kissed by cherubs."

I sat down on the edge of the bed, cocking an eyebrow at her.

"Would it fit in your room?"

She sat up.

"Amelia, it probably wouldn't even fit in my house."

I laughed at her suddenly serious expression, but it faded as I fiddled with one of my plaits.

"I have to admit...I do feel a bit out of place here."

"I'm too busy dropping my jaw to worry about that. Imagine! Clive gets to live here! I mean I knew he was in clover, but wow! Do you think he gets served breakfast in bed? Does he have a butler and, er, a valet and whatever else, you think? Talk about lucky."

"I suppose," I said. Honestly, I was still to struggling to match Clive with his home. If I had known the latter before the former I might have assumed that anyone who grew up in a place like Dove Manor and attended Dreycott would be a stuck-up snob. I supposed many of my classmates could have fallen under that category. Yet despite the fact Clive shared a similar background, he had never acted spoilt or pretentious in the slightest. In fact, he'd barely mentioned his home life other than a passing comment here or there. Could he possibly be ashamed for some reason?

No, that didn't seem right. He had invited us here after all.

Sofia was right, he was just private. It had given him an air of mystery when I'd first met him and it still left me with many questions, especially now that I was here.

"Hey, Amelia, watch this!"

Gemma rolled off the bed and back-pedaled to the door. With a yelp, she sprang forward, diving onto the bed in an unceremonious belly flop that nearly bounced me onto the floor

"Gemma!" I lowered my voice, "Er, you probably shouldn't do that."

"Oh, c'mon, Amelia! No one will mind. You've got to try it."

"Mm, nope. I don't think so."

Gemma rolled into a sitting position.

"Alright, then, _fine_ , you goody-two-shoes. To business. The chess tournament."

"Right," I said, sitting up straighter, glad she was sobering up.

"We have to find you something to wear."

"What? Gemma, no, that's the least of my worries."

"No, trust me on this one. You want to make the right impression. You want to show your competitors how sophisticated and smart you are right off the bat."

She sprang from the bed.

"Come on! Let's see what you've got!"

Before I could answer, she dashed from the room like the mad woman she was, catching her shirt on the doorknob as she went and nearly tripping over herself.

"I'm okay!"

When she was gone, I rolled my eyes, but the hopeless smile tugging at my lips betrayed me.

We spent the rest of the afternoon doing nothing much in particular. Gemma helped me sort through my clothes and pick something out for the tournament, while I looked for something suitable to wear for dinner.

At home, comfort always came first for me. I liked woolen jumpers, skirts with soft, loose folds, tights faded from too many washings, durable shorts and trousers for working out in the garden, and an old pair of boots that fit my feet just right. But none of that seemed quite appropriate for supper at a place like this. I finally chose a blue and goldenrod dress my mum had bought for me a while back that I'd never yet worn.

After I put it on, I realized with some alarm it was the longest I'd ever spent picking out something to wear. And still I fussed with it, wondering if it was too short, the right color, and a dozen other petty thoughts that had never dared cross my mind in the past.

Gemma wanted to try out different hairstyles on me for the tournament, so I let her pick out my braids with a fine-tooth comb. It had actually become a bit of a habit since the masquerade, Gemma doing my hair. She would chat whilst working and I would read and somehow we managed to converse.

"I want to turn it all around this summer," she was saying as I flipped through one of the chess books that had been placed in my room.

I glanced up.

"Turn it all around?

Gemma sighed.

"Wake up early. Eat healthier. Read something intellectually stimulating. Take up a productive hobby. Self-discipline, that's what I need!"

"This coming from someone who just belly-flopped onto her bed?"

"Today doesn't count. I'll start first thing tomorrow. Summer fresh. Day one of my brand new, well-rounded life," She sighed again, a more genuine sigh.

The words on the page lost focus as I narrowed in on the sound. What was that all about? She had been her usual carefree self until just then. It made me wonder something I'd wrestled with before–how much of her peppiness was real and how much was just a cover for something she didn't want to show.

"Gemma," I began, hesitantly, "Is something...bothering you?"

My suspicions were confirmed when I felt the comb stop midway through my hair.

"I haven't been taking care of myself," she began, her voice fragile as Constance's hands, "I still have headaches and night–" She paused for a long second, "And dreams."

Something uneasy began to uncurl inside my stomach.

"Dreams?"

"Yeah. It's nothing, though. They're just really weird. Almost like they're more memories than dreams. Like if I could just sleep longer, I could almost piece them together..."

"What–what do you dream about?"

Another pause.

"The spiders," Gemma said finally, her voice quiet. "They smell so sweet. Like the sweetest tea and there's something cold on my arms like wet paint, but it's hardening. I think I'm on stage. It's my debut...my first starring role," she shook her head, "Anyway, don't worry about it. I mean with all the crazy stuff that's happened this year, it's really no wonder, right? You know, all those stupid Araneae rumors probably affected my psyche or something, is that what it's called? That's what Trewinkle would say."

"Maybe. But you will talk to your parents about it, just in case?"

I didn't like the feeling of being the only one privy to whatever was going on with Gemma. First headaches, now nightmares. What if it _was_ something serious?

"I will. Don't worry. Like I said I probably just need to get to bed on time and stuff. Oh! I forgot to tell you," Gemma's voice suddenly brightened as she started on my hair again, "I'm working on a memorization project. Shall I name all the Titans in alphabetical order for you? Let's see, Asteria, Atlas, Coeus, Crius, Cronus..."

It wasn't exactly a reassuring end to the topic, but I let it go for now, wanting to turn it over privately and stew on it.

Ten til six we ventured back out into the hallway. All was quiet, save for the pad of our footfalls on the thick carpet and the faint ticking of a clock.

Following Spring's instructions, we eventually found our way to the dining room. A pair of French doors stood at the far end and through the glass I could see an oval table laid out, the hanging folds of its white tablecloth fluttering in the breeze.

Constance sat at the table's head, Cogg by her side.

Spring, meanwhile, was busy pouring drinks for Clive and Bernard. Beyond stretched the soft greens of the shrubbery and trees that made up the gardens. The setting sun rippled across a nearly pond that lay in their midst, spanned by a bridge that connected to the ribbon of pale gravel that cut through the green.

Gemma opened the door and we stepped out into the cool evening.

"Ah, and here are the ladies," Constance said, "I hope you've both found your rooms satisfactory?"

"Yes, very satisfactory," Gemma said, but her eyes were on the table's glorious spread. The breeze brought wafts of lemon, seared fish, and fresh bread to our nose.

Constance's eyes crinkled upward at the corners.

"I'm very glad to here it. But let's not let the food get cold. Mrs. Dellins has really quite outdone herself."

We sat down across from the boys, my mouth watering like it hadn't done in a long time. After eating Dreycott's decidedly bland food for so long I supposed anything different would have tasted good, but I could already tell this meal would be in a class of its own.

Beginning at one end of the table, there was tilapia drenched in butter, lemon, and herbs, velvety baked potatoes with crispy skins, a colorful medley of vegetables, and, my favorite, soft rolls still warm from the oven. And to top it all off, a pitcher of ice-cold raspberry lemonade.

Spring and Cogg helped to pour drinks and pass platters, but when everyone's plates and cups were filled, they straightened as if they were going to return to their posts.

"Nonsense," Constance said, indicating the two extra place settings, "You two simply must join us. There's plenty and this is a celebration."

"Please," Clive said.

"Well," Spring fiddled with her broach, "I don't know what to say."

"Never in my father's day," Cogg said, chuckling, "But I could never turn you down, young sir."

Once they were sat and properly served, we all dug in. Everything was just as delicious as it looked. The clink of forks that seemed so tedious at Dreycott turned to a lively din as they mingled with the spirited conversations that sprang up across the table.

Gemma, Constance, and Spring were soon chatting like old friends on all manner of topics, the latest fashions, the stage, embroidery, and their favorite novels. Cogg and Clive, meanwhile were busy catching up–the renovations Cogg was doing to his cottage, the classes Clive had enjoyed the most this year, and Spring and Cogg's trip to Surrey in the spring.

"Hit a pothole and got a flat on the way back," Cogg was saying as he finished off his fish, "Wish you could have been there, young sir. Could have gained some valuable life experience!"

"Just like I did when we were working on the plumbing in the cellar," Clive replied dryly

"Ha, ha! Nearly flooded the whole house, you did!"

Clive took a sip of his lemonade.

"I'm not against gaining practical skills, really, but I have to admit your method of teaching is rather questionable."

Cogg chuckled.

"Learning first-hand is the only proper way to learn, young sir."

"But you could have told me the pipe leveled right at my face was about to burst!"

And then the two were caught up recounting the story between interludes of laughter to each other and to me and Bernard, who seemed mostly interested in the vegetables, discreetly taking several helpings throughout the evening.

I was content to simply listen and offer a brief question here or there, as this other side to Clive left me intrigued and observant. He talked and laughed more freely then I'd ever seen him and even his appetite seemed to have grown (though that could've been chalked up to the quality of the meal). But there was something harder to explain–an openness, a freedom to his speech and mannerisms that warmed his entire demeanor. No strain, no struggle to hide anything or put up a cool and crafty front. I'd seen Clive like this before, but never for such a duration.

Finally, when the story ended and the laughter had subsided, Cogg turned to me.

"Young sir tells me you're quite the genius at chess, miss."

I shot a look at Clive who was innocently biting into a roll.

"He's exaggerating," I said, heat prickling across my cheeks, hating myself for feeling pleased,"Has he told you he's quite the genius at picking locks?"

Clive choked.

"Heh!" Cogg was grinning now, "'Fraid I might've taught him a thing or two about that. Was a locksmith for a brief stint, see? Madame didn't exactly approve at first, but then she said it might be useful just in case the young sir were kidnapped for ransom or something."

"It's not very likely!" Clive protested, "Maybe if I were five!"

Bernard and I started snickering. I wondered if Clive was beginning to regret inviting us all over.

"So, how do you two like Dreycott, then?" Cogg continued.

Bernard stirred his lemonade.

"I suppose it doesn't matter if I like it there or not," he said, "My dad's a teacher."

"A teacher, eh? What's he teach?"

"Chemistry," Bernard said, civilly enough. "And how to be a shut-in."

He chuckled grimly.

"Huh," Cogg must have realized he'd entered dangerous waters, "And, er, what's your mum do?"

Bernard began scooping more vegetables onto his plate.

"She's a doctor. In rural Bangladesh. Specializes in leprosy. Was just nominated for the Nobel Prize, actually."

The indifference in his voice caused Clive and I to trade concerned glances tinged with surprise. Now we were in territory neither of us had ever dared touch upon.

"...Sounds like interesting work," Cogg was mopping his brow, "Er, what about you, miss, how do you like Dreycott?"

I rather hated questions of this sort only because my brain was so desperate to get something out as quick as possible, it always went for the vaguest answer it could find. This time it was made worse by the fact I wanted to spare both Bernard and Cogg further embarrassment.

"Yes. I mean–it's, well, not bad," I said my words practically tripping over themselves. "The building, it's..."

"It is quite the structure," Constance said, "If you don't mind me intruding."

"Oh! Not at all."

"I attended Dreycott as a girl," she continued, "Such a fascinating history behind it. Full of holes and mysteries. Sometimes I was more interested in poking around than my studies. I'm afraid Clive takes after me in that respect."

Clive shrugged helplessly.

"Guilty."

"I do hope he hasn't dragged the three of you into any dangerous adventures."

Constance's tone was joking, but Gemma, Bernard, and I could only laugh nervously.

Before we could say anything, however, Spring appeared (I hadn't even realized she'd left) bearing a three layered chocolate cake sprinkled with raspberries that reduced all attempts at conversation to small moans and sighs.

After everyone had eaten their fill, Spring and Cogg worked to clear away the dishes (I'd wanted to get up and help, but I'm afraid my shyness conquered me this time). When they had taken them inside, Constance turned to Clive.

"There's still a bit of light, dear. Would you mind giving an old woman a turn about the garden?"

Clive smiled, placing his napkin on his plate.

"Not at all."

The two excused themselves. We watched as Clive pushed Constance down a short ramp and up the path through the gardens at a leisurely stroll allowing the two time to enjoy the last blush of sunlight to its fullest. The sound of their quiet conversation and warm laughter blended with the rustle of the trees and the evensong of the birds.

Slowly, twilight slipped across the gardens.

"They're so sweet together," Gemma said, breaking the hush, "Hey. So...if I don't ever have kids, will you guys push me around like that when I'm an old woman?"

"Oh, yes," Bernard said, "Right off a–"

I shot a glare at him.

"Bernard!"

"What? Learn to appreciate a little dark humor, Amelia."

Gemma grinned.

"Oh-ho, I get it. When you tell jokes at night you call it _dark_ humor, right? So in the daytime it would be _light_ humor. _Eh_?"

There was a moment of silence as Gemma looked back and forth between the two of us, wiggling her eyebrows.

"Well, time to go inside," Bernard finally said.

"Yes," I agreed.

We all retired to our rooms as, like a thief on the prowl, darkness stole after twilight and the lights that marked the boundaries of the garden flickered to life.

I was studying another chess book, curled up in my new favorite armchair, when I heard a knock at my door. I opened it to find Gemma already wearing pajamas (with little purple octopi all over the them no less), a bathrobe, and shag carpet slippers, a towel wrapped around her wet hair.

"Meeting in Clive's room," she said.

Loathe as I was to leave my cozy spot, I followed her past the stairs and down the left-hand hallway. She knocked on the third door to the right.

"Come in."

Clive's room was actually a series of rooms, like his own little flat. His bed was nowhere in sight, anyway, so I assumed it was tucked away beyond one of the several doors, for when he remembered to use it. The main room, however, was more all-purpose. There was an antique desk that contrasted with the very new typewriter that was sat on top. The wall opposite was actually a large built-in bookshelf with an old comfortable reading chair similar to mine.

Other details popped out to me as I glanced about: a large globe with golden-brown seas on a shelf lined with photographs, an old model train set that looked a bit neglected, a cluster of potted plants surrounding an impressive fish tank, and a balcony that looked out over the gardens. Over everything a healthy coating of papers tacked to the walls and crumpled underfoot, stacks of books impaled with scraps of paper that had strayed far from their shelves, and sentinel teacups that glinted lamplight. If Dove Manor had a maid, it appeared she left Clive's room well enough alone.

Said occupant and Bernard were seated on a sofa in the middle of the room, leaning over a number of notebooks and papers arranged on the low, round table. A tea tray sat nearby with three cups and saucers. Clive was already sipping from his.

"Ah, there you are," his said, looking up. Bernard glanced at Gemma, then immediately averted his eyes.

"Really, Mudget. Have some common decency."

Gemma snorted, folding her arms.

" _What_? They're just pajamas! Very decent pajamas, I might add. Why, I've got more skin covered then I did earlier!"

"This isn't a slumber party," Bernard grumbled, "We have important matters to discuss and I won't be able to concentrate with all those creepy squid winking at me."

"They're octopuses!"

"Alright, you two," Clive chided as Gemma and I sat down on the opposite sofa, "Plenty of time for bickering later. We've got a lot to talk about."

"Huh?" Gemma said, "Did something happen?"

"He's talking about the school year as a whole," I glanced to Clive as I poured myself a cup of tea, "Right?"

"Right," Clive closed his eyes, "The year's done and we've got a box full of puzzle pieces to sort through."

Bernard folded his arms, slumping his back against the sofa.

"Where to begin? I mean, even I'll admit we've made progress, but to what end? Are we any closer to stopping the Statue? And now we have this feud to think about...Amos Crimp, those letters. I think we've gotten off track, honestly."

"But what about what happened to me?" Gemma said, wrapping her robe tighter about her, "Araneae and the spiders..."

"The black hatch and the oculus sapphire," Clive added, rolling his pen between his fingers.

"Too much," I murmured, my mind already swimming with all we had gathered over the last few months, "What we really need is a bit of organization."

"My thoughts exactly," Clive replied, "It's high time we looked at the big picture. Try to see how everything's linked."

"Sounds good," Gemma said, "But T-winkle's right. Where do we even begin?"

"Professor Rosen," Clive had opened to a fresh page in his notebook which I knew meant his brain was in overdrive, "Our enigmatic headmistress. Her behavior was one of the first indications to me that something was wrong at Dreycott. And the more I think on it, the more I believe she may be the key to everything. What do we know about her?"

"She's very private," I said, "Er, she almost never leaves her office. She's given the Patrol free reign and lets them run most of the day-to-day activities. And she's very picky about who she lets in," I was reminded of the puzzles Rosen had set to test potential patrollers, "Once you're in, though, she trusts you. Although –"

"Felix," Bernard cut in, "She cast him out of her inner circle. And now the Patrol is facing a serious split."

"But we still don't know what happened," Gemma said.

"Right," Clive said, "The reason why she tossed out Felix could link to the other goings-ons at the school or perhaps Rosen just finally realized what a nasty person he is."

"Don't need a magnifying glass to see that," Gemma grumbled.

"But the question we need to focus on," Clive continued, "Is why? Why does Rosen behave the way she does? Why does she give the Patrol so much power?"

"The Statue, for one thing," I answered, "It's appeared six times now, seven if you include the time it showed up at the premiere. Rosen uses the Patrol to keep order, make sure everyone's following the new rules she's laid down." I paused, "It seems like she really is trying to ensure no one else runs into the Statue."

"And yet it keeps happening. It even revealed itself to two patrollers," Clive closed his eyes, "Despite her best efforts, even hiring a private investigator, Rosen can't seem to get a handle on the situation."

"Why hasn't she called in Scotland Yard, I wonder?" Gemma asked.

"Maybe she's trying to keep her reputation intact," Clive replied, "Or maybe..."

"Maybe she can't," I finished, remembering what Amos Crimp had said, about someone pulling strings. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how odd it was that no one, pupil, teacher or parent, had managed to get the police involved in the whole affair. Was it possible...could there really be someone at Dreycott with the power to make them turn a blind eye?

"Let's not forget about the letters," Bernard said, "Mr. Harrier's letters he says are from a third party. That could be another reason for Rosen's behavior."

"Blackmail!" Gemma cried.

"We don't know for sure," I said, "But they do seem to be troubling to the Professor."

"And there may be a third reason," Clive said, "Rosen's past. She was friends with a Dreycott, despite the fact the two families are, or were, bitter enemies. Does Rosen know the Statue claims to be Hyacinth Dreycott? Does she know Hyacinth is looking for revenge on the Rosens?"

We were all silent as we pondered this. I knew Rosen the best out of the four of us, but still, with how reserved and cautious she was, it was hard to say if she was truly ignorant of the situation.

"Rosen always talks as if she thinks a group of pupils are behind the Statue. As if it were just an elaborate, cruel prank, but..." I trailed off, not sure I should extrapolate on gut instinct alone.

"You don't think she really believes that?" Bernard prodded.

"Maybe she does know something more," I agreed. I didn't have proof, only an inconsistency. The Professor was very intelligent. Surely she must have realized by the now that it was beyond a group of mere schoolchildren, however resourceful, to pull off something as elaborate as the Statue.

"Those old letters you've found, Amelia," Clive said, "The evidence so far points to them being written by Professor Rosen and Peter Dreycott. If that's true, then it seems Rosen is at least aware of a larger mystery at the school."

"But does that mystery connect to the Statue?"

"The mystery of the black hatch," Clive said, "Amos said he, Rosen, Peter tried to open it. There is a possible connection between it and the Statue. Can you think of what it might be?"

We all thought a moment.

"The oculus sapphire," Gemma finally said, "Hyacinth mentioned it as being important and those rods we keep finding that open the hatch, they have _blue gems_ on the ends. And then there's the _sapphire_ cycle puzzles. When we solved one we found one of the rods!"

"A bit of a stretch," Bernard said, "But also a bit too much to be coincidence."

"Are you actually agreeing with me?" Gemma grinned.

"I'm simply following where the logic leads," Bernard replied haughtily.

"And the sapphire connects to the last big piece in the puzzle, Araneae and the spiders," Clive said, "According to legend, the sapphire is actually Araneae's eye which the Patrol have to locate in order to keep her from ever escaping beneath the school."

"What if...what if Araneae is trapped behind the black hatch?" Gemma asked, her voice suddenly hollow.

We all turned to her. She was fiddling with the tie of her bathrobe, her grin all but faded.

"Gemma...Araneae isn't real," I said, as softly as I could.

Gemma wouldn't look at me.

"I know. But we still don't know why all those spiders were in my room."

"At any rate," Clive said, glancing uneasily between the two of us, "I think our next step when we return to school has been decided for us."

"You want us to try and open the black hatch," Bernard filled in.

"Yes. We need to track down the final key and figure out if it truly does connect to the Statue and the sapphire," Clive perked up a bit, "Our main goal remains exposing the Statue for what it really is, which means digging deeper to learn more about the sapphire, the Dreycotts, and Professor Rosen. Which leads me to tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I echoed.

"My mother has an old acquaintance at Gressenheller. He's an expert on famous artifacts. An antiques collector, as well. I thought we might pay him a visit."

"You think he knows something about the sapphire?" Bernard asked.

"Yes," Clive said, "I've also arranged for us to visit the Dreycott family mausoleum. That's where Hyacinth was buried. It's a long-shot, but you never know."

"Gressenheller and a graveyard?" I said, "Sounds intriguing."

Clive stood and stretched.

"We've a long day ahead of us. We should all get some rest."

"The investigation begins anew!" Gemma said, her enthusiasm already rekindling as the three of us headed out the door. "Who needs sleep! You know, I think I'll stay up all night and pack some essential gear for tomorrow. Let's see, we'll need snacks, probably water, notebooks, torches for the mausoleum, maybe some crayons..."

But when I peeked in at her fifteen minutes later, after I'd returned from brushing my teeth, I saw she was out cold, buried in a mound of pillows and stuffed animals she'd managed to smuggle in her little suitcase.

I slept well myself that night, feeling satisfied we had a firm grasp on our investigation, on what had to be one of the softest beds in the country.

The next morning, I was up early, refreshed and ready for the day. I dressed and headed down to the dining room where Clive, Bernard, and Constance were already eating breakfast. Cogg had just come in with the mail, which Constance was now sorting.

"Good morning," said Clive, offering me a smile as he looked up from the newspaper he'd been paging through.

I stifled a yawn.

"Good morning."

Bernard greeted me by raising his coffee cup. The golden-warm sunshine splashing through the window brought out his pallor.

Constance finally looked up as well.

"Ah, Amelia. Did you sleep well, dear?"

"Yes, very well."

"Good, because it sounds like Clive has quite the line-up for us today," Constance continued, "First up, Gressenheller. Next...a cemetery, was it?"

She cocked an eyebrow at Clive as she stirred her tea.

"A mausoleum, more precisely," Clive said, "That belonged to the Dreycott family."

"Ah, a mausoleum. A cheerful start to the holiday. Are you going to tell me why or is it a sort of morbid surprise?"

"Well... it has to do with the mystery we've uncovered at school," Clive said carefully, "Concerning the Dreycott family."

"Mm-mm. Tell me, Clive, this wouldn't have anything to do with what happened at the masquerade, would it?"

Clive was silent. Constance wore a satisfied smile as if she'd set a trap that had sprung at just the right moment.

"Well?"

"Y-you know about that?"

Constance had turned her attention to her boiled egg, tapping at it with a delicate spoon.

"Oh, tosh, Clive. Of course I know about that. It's made quite the stir."

"Of course," His eyes lost their focus as his fingers tapped the table, "We're thinking there is probably a connection, yes. Between the Dreycotts and what happened that night."

"Hmm, so I see," Something seemed to have caught Constance's eye, "Well, we'll talk more about it later."

Judging from her tone, I imagined the "we" she was referring to was herself and Clive, but before I could think more on it Gemma shuffled into the room, dressed, but bleary-eyed, a backpack slung over her shoulder (had she stuffed _that_ in her suitcase, as well?)

"Morning all," She studied us, "What's with the serious expressions?

...Do I have toothpaste on my glasses?"

"We were just discussing our plans for the day," I said.

"And then I gave Clive his daily cross-examination," Constance added.

"Good, he needs a few of those," Gemma said, sitting down beside me and helping herself to the plate of bacon. "So, what is the plan for the day? Refresh my memory."

Constance's eyes twinkled.

"We're visiting a dear old friend of mine. I must say, Clive, this homunculus sapphire has piqued my curiosity."

"Oculus, mum. The oculus sapphire," Clive corrected with a small smile.

"Don't nitpick your mother's grammar in front of guests, Clive. Now, let's be brisk and get on our way."

We quickly finished up our breakfasts and headed out the manor's front door where two cars were waiting, since of course we wouldn't all be able to pile into one. Gemma, Constance, and Spring decided to go with Sofia while Bernard, Clive, and I squeezed into the back of Cogg's well-kept little car.

Twenty minutes later we were pulling up to the university's main complex, its three enormous sky blue domes rising up above rooftops of a darker hue that contrasted sharply with the walls of red-orange brick and round-topped windows that caught the sun.

Cogg and Sofia dropped us off at the front entrance and went to find parking spaces. Apparently, the term had not quite ended at the university yet, as both the grounds and the lobby were bustling with students heading to and from classes.

"If I remember correctly, the good doctor's office should be on the first floor," Constance said, as Spring pushed her along in her chair.

We took the elevator up to the first floor, heading down the right-hand corridor until we reached a door marked with some sort of hieroglyph. Clive knocked.

"Come in, come in!" A voice, slightly hoarse, replied.

When Clive opened the door, the first thing I caught sight of was a short man with a thick gray beard and a very red nose sitting at his desk, shuffling a stack of papers. One could tell at a glance that he was an academic, from his no-nonsense brown suit paired with a passé polka dot tie to his owl-eyed gaze that could probably zero in on a snoozing student in the back of the lecture hall in a matter of seconds. He stood and approached us as we filed into the room, reaching forward to clasp Constance's hand, a smile turning his mustache up.

"Madame Dove, it has been awhile. I trust you're well?"

"Too long, Dr. Schrader. And we're all doing marvelously. Yourself?"

"Very well, Madame. I keep myself quite occupied."

One could tell that just by looking round his office. It was crammed with all manner of antiques, faded stone artifacts covered in strange glyphs, knick-knacks, scrolls, pottery, shells, and meticulously reconstructed fossils. The sun-caught dust motes that drifted near the windows were probably thousands of years old.

Dr. Schrader turned to Clive.

"And this must be your son...?"

"Clive."

Clive stepped forward to shake Dr. Schrader's hand.

"Last time I saw you, you were quite a bit smaller. Knee high to a scarab as Dean Delmona would say! And these are..."

"Friends and schoolmates of mine," Clive supplied, "And Spring, our housekeeper."

"An honor, sir," Spring said, who looked very pleased, "You were on the cover of Antiques Bandwagon magazine last month, weren't you?"

"Ha, ha! Rather embarrassing for me, I'll admit. Leave the magazine covers for the younger archeologists, I say," Dr. Schrader cleared his throat, "A pleasure to meet you all. I would invite you all to sit down, but I'm afraid I only have two chairs, presently. I'll see if I can't retrieve a few more from my neighbor."  
"Oh, don't trouble yourself on our account, doctor," Constance said, then chuckled, "Though I suppose it's easy for me to say."

"We're fine!" Gemma said, "I'm too excited to sit down!"

"I'm not," Bernard said automatically. Gemma stepped on his foot.

"Very well," Dr. Schrader retrieved a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket, "Now, I believe in your letter you requested I look into...the oculus sapphire was it?"

"That's right, sir," Clive said, "Were you able to dig up anything?"

"Just a moment, my boy," Dr. Schrader turned to a large filing cabinet and opened the middle drawing, quickly sorting through the contents, "I was able to compile a few interesting tidbits...let's see... Oaxacan monolith...Oberon's staff...Obelisk of Talaat...Oceanus... Ah. Oculus."

He pulled out a thin manila folder and opened it, balancing it across his spanned fingers.

We waited, collectively holding our breath, as he scanned the folder.

"Now, let's establish some context first," he finally said, "Tell me what you already know about the sapphire, if you would."

"Well," Gemma adjusted her own glasses, "We know it belonged to the Dreycott family. But it disappeared a long time ago and hasn't been seen since."

"Correct," Dr. Schrader said, still flipping through the folder's contents, "The stone was a symbol of the Dreycott family's power, their wealth and prestige. It was custom for the head of the family to wear the stone around his or her neck during special occasions. Apparently, it was quite famous throughout London. Very recognizable."

"What about its name?" I surprised myself with the question, but found it came out quite easily. Dr. Schrader seemed the type of teacher who welcomed interaction and inquiries of all stripes. "Why 'oculus'?"

The doctor looked up, eyes gleaming.

"That is the most fascinating part, young lady. See, the sapphire apparently functioned as a sort of eyepiece."

"An eyepiece?" Clive put a hand to his chin, his brow knit in concentration.

"Yes, a very peculiar gemstone. It had a hole in the very center. Like an adderstone."

"But what's the point of that?" Bernard wanted to know, "Not a very helpful sort of eyepiece, unless it had some silly superstitious purpose like an adderstone."

"You're not far off the mark. You see..." Here Dr. Schrader paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully, "This is where the story takes a turn towards the fantastical. It was thought that if you peered through the stone, you could catch a glimpse of the future."

"A glimpse of the future?" Constance mused, "So, it functioned like a crystal ball of sorts? Very queer."

"Not quite, Madame. The stone was thought to glimpse possibilities...dark possibilities, ways in which its owner could potentially die or become ill or injured or beset by some other misfortune."

My own brow had started to furrow. This sounded like nothing more than another fairytale. Another chapter to the Araneae legend and not a useful lead at all. Still, Hyacinth thought it was important. Did its "powers" relate to her assertion that it would "reveal all"?

"How intriguing," Spring murmured, "Just think. With that stone, I'd never have to worry about sticking myself with needles."

"Rubbish," Bernard said, folding his arms, "Gemstones of all sorts have had superstitions tacked onto them for centuries."

"I highly doubt the stone had any real power to grant foresight," Dr. Schrader countered, "But the Dreycotts certainly believed it did and that sort of unquestioned belief can have a peculiar power of its own. Psychologically speaking."

This answer seemed to satisfy Bernard, but Gemma seemed less sure.

"But wait– either it's real or a complete phony. Which is it?" she huffed, "It can't be half real or whatever. That doesn't make sense. Either you see the future or you don't!"

"The Dreycotts believed the stone protected them from the family curse." Dr. Schrader went on, "When the mind believes fervently, especially in superstition, it is natural to fit in everything one sees into one's frame of reference. A black cat crosses your path and suddenly all you can focus upon is the bad things, however small, that follow. Anything that doesn't fit is left by the wayside."

The explanation was quite interesting, but I found myself most intrigued by his mention of a 'curse'.

"What is this family curse?" I asked.

"Family curse?" Spring echoed, "My, my! And this is the same family that founded Dreycott school?"

"Does it have something to do with the feud, I wonder?" Clive pondered aloud.

Dr. Schrader shut his folder.

"I'm afraid I don't know much about it. Only the general rumors that have always passed around about the family. Though, you don't hear much about them anymore," He removed his spectacles, "Back in the day they were very powerful, very influential here in London. But there were rumors of ties to the criminal underworld. And that the family suffered from some terrible curse. Other than that, however, I don't know if I can help you."

"Thank you," Clive said, "You've already given us plenty of useful information. But I have one more question, if you wouldn't mind."

"Certainly," Dr. Schrader said, as he tucked the folder under his arm.

"Do you know how the sapphire went missing?"

Dr. Schrader thought for a long moment.

"I think it was at the start of the family's hard times, when all the rumors began, centuries back. There was a terrible tragedy, a–a fire or something."

"A fire," Clive repeated in a hollow voice.

"Well, thank you so much for your time, Dr. Schrader," Constance said, putting a hand against Clive's back. "We'd best let you get back to your work."

"No trouble at all, my pleasure," the doctor replied, "Is this for some sort of summer school project?"

"We all attend Dreycott School," Gemma said, "And we've stumbled into a mystery there. Hmm, maybe stumble isn't the best word. More like tripped head-first."

"Ah," The doctor smiled, "Always heartening to see young people in pursuit of the truth. Well, if I turn anything else up on the matter, I'll be sure to let you know."

Once we had said our thanks and returned to the hallway, Constance turned to the four of us.

"Well, that was very interesting. I had no idea the Dreycott family was quite so strange. Of course, I knew there were rumors, but nothing like this."

"Yes," Clive agreed, his voice still subdued. His eyes, slightly glazed, matched his tone. It wasn't hard to guess what Dr. Schrader's answer had reminded him of–if he wasn't always thinking about, somewhere in the back of his mind. I wanted to say something to cheer him up, draw him back to the present, but I couldn't think of anything that didn't sound too obvious.

"Are we done here, then?" Gemma was bouncing on her heels.

"Why, have something better to do?" Bernard replied.

"No, it's just, I wondered if we could take a peek at the Wilder Theatre. That's where Professor Xander used to work!"

"Yes, that's right, he used to head up the drama department here at Gressenheller, didn't he?" Constance asked

"Ooh, I wouldn't mind taking a look myself!" Spring gushed, "I had the biggest crush on Antony Xander when I was a school-girl!"

"Did you ever get to see one of his plays?" Gemma gasped.

With Gemma and Spring chatting non-stop the entire way, we consulted a nearby map and headed across campus to a large auditorium located to the north of the main complex.

The doors were unlocked, but the lobby looked deserted.

"All done for the term, I suppose," Gemma said, sounding a bit disappointed.

Just then a woman with a red afro and orb earrings came in through a door marked _Employees Only_ , a load of papers tucked under her arm.

"Oh!" she stopped, "Prospective students already? Hmm. You _do_ look a bit young."

"We just came to see the auditorium," Gemma said, "Erm, do you happen to know Professor Xander?"

The woman sighed, rubbing a mood ring.

"Do I know the Prof? 'Course! Worked for him for over a decade! Do I ever miss that man. Left for some uppity boarding school, I think."

"Dreycott School," Clive said. The brisk walk seemed to have done him some good, "We all attend. He left Gressenheller about three years ago, was it?"

" _Ahhh_ , so that's how you know the Prof," the woman nodded, "Yeah, it's been about three years, now. The place just isn't the same without him."

She shifted the folder under her arm. "Well, seeing as you know the Prof, I don't 'spose there's any harm in letting you take a peek backstage, if you'd like."

Gemma looked ready to loose a euphoric scream, but it was Constance who answered.

"We wouldn't want to intrude on your time."

"No intrusion. We host workshops over the summer, so I've just been organizing. Name's Bebe. If you just wanna follow me?"

Bebe led us through the door she had just come through. We followed her down a narrow, unremarkable hallway, taking a few sharp corners until we reached a green door that read BACKSTAGE. She ushered us beyond.

It looked like an ordinary backstage to me with crates, ropes and pulleys for the curtains, a rack of costumes, and a few half-finished set pieces, but Gemma was practically salivating.

"Now _this_ is the real deal! This is what we need at Dreycott! Not some dinky little closet."

"No backstage, eh?" Bebe said, chuckling.

"Not much of a front stage either," Bernard added.

"Huh," Bebe folded her arms, "Funny he'd jump for a place like that. But when he heard the position was open he left real quick. Still hasn't cleaned out all his stuff in the green room yet."

Gemma's eyes nearly bugged out of her head.

"Can I take a peek?"

"Heh! Why not, seeing as you're such a big fan."

The green room was spacious, with several sofas and tables, curved shelves stuffed with playbooks, and bits of artsy decor that looked as though it had been culled from ritzy yard sales. I was especially intrigued by the posters hanging up about the room. They were all for horror productions featuring rather gruesome, disfigured characters, "The Stone Man of Barrow Village", "Blood Under the Door", "London Vampire at Dusk".

"My, my," said Spring, examining one featuring a man holding his own decapitated head, "I had no idea Antony Xander had such morbid tastes..."

"Those are vintage or something," Bebe said, "Never even heard of any of those plays, but the Prof was right proud of them." She grinned, "I remember when he used to bring his little girl back here. She'd always get a big kick outta those."

"Professor Xander has a daughter?"

I hadn't meant to say anything aloud, but it so surprised me it popped right out.

"His, er, his niece, actually. He took her in when she was just a lil' cutie. Sickly thing, but he loved her like his own daughter," Bebe scratched her chin, "She'd be all grown-up by now."

"Any idea what happened to her?" Clive asked.

"It's been a long time. She stopped coming 'round the university when she was a bit older...I don't know, really."

After Gemma had gotten her fill of the room, we said our thanks to Bebe and headed back to the lobby. Once outside, we made for the parking lot. Cogg's feet could be seen sticking out beneath Sofia's car as she stood nearby, frowning, hands on hips.

"Sofia, you ran over Cogg!?" Gemma cried.

"Tinkering," she replied with a sigh, "Always that man is tinkering."

Cogg pulled himself out from under the car, wiping the sweat from his brow. He'd taken his jacket off and his grease-splotched sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

"Think I got it," he gasped as he stood. "So, how did it go?"

"Very well," Constance said, "But you know, I'm feeling a little tired," She reached up to rest a hand on Clive's shoulder, "Why don't I go back with Sofia while the rest of you go on to that mausoleum?"

Clive's brow furrowed in concern as he turned to her.

"You're not feeling well? Maybe I should come back with you."

"Nonsense, Clive. I'm fine. Just an old woman, you know. Stay with your friends."

She smiled reassuringly as she brushed his bangs out of his eyes.

"Alright, then," Clive was still frowning, "We'll be back in time for lunch."

The four of us piled into Cogg's car, while Sofia headed out with Constance and Spring, who had a list of things she was eager to get done back at the manor.

"A mausoleum, eh?" Cogg said, as he put the car into reverse. "This should be interesting, young sir."

"I hope so," Clive said.

We had to cross Tower Bridge to reach the Dreycott mausoleum, which was located at a centuries old private cemetery that bordered a small wood and a narrow gray church. The caretaker was waiting outside when we arrived, a pale, balding man who looked like he was made of wax and insisted on wearing a monocle with no glass.

"Children?" he said, as we all stepped out of the car. He rubbed his fingers distastefully as if he were trying to get something sticky off of them, "I'm to play tour guide to a group of hyperactive _children_?"

"We're practically teenagers," Gemma said, sitting down atop a particularly weathered headstone, "So don't worry about babying us."

The man sputtered, but seemed to relax slightly when he saw Cogg.

"I assume you are the guardian of these adolescents?"

"In a manner of speaking," Cogg said with a lopsided grin, "Er, best behavior, kids."

"We won't be long," Clive said, retrieving his notebook, "You've worked here a while, yes? Any information you could give us about the Dreycotts would be very helpful."

"Well," the man said, tugging at the thick tweed jacket he wore despite the warm sunshine, "I am rather well-informed on that topic. Follow me."

He led us down a narrow path that led through a forest of crooked gravestones, most so old that their lettering had all but faded.

"We have seventeen world famous historical figures buried here. Including Francis Wiggenbottom."

We all trudged along silently.

"Francis Wiggenbottom? The inventor of the reusable vacuum bag?"

"Oh. Right. Him," Clive said, "Fascinating."

"And we have three mausoleums," the caretaker said, chest puffing with pride, "The Dreycott's is the largest."

He turned up a short path, through a dense copse of tree, and we suddenly found ourselves taking in a somber stone structure, nearly as large as the church itself. As we climbed the three steps, the caretaker took out a thin key.

"Remember, no touching," he chided, "This is a _sacred sanctuary of history_ and must be treated as such."

Sliding the key in the lock, he turned it with a clink and pulled the door open.

I had never been inside a mausoleum before so I wasn't sure what to expect other than a general unsettling atmosphere. However, once I stepped through the door, any thoughts of scavenging rats and skeletal hands dangling from dark crevices were quickly dispelled.

The place was still and quiet and gray like a half-finished sketch in charcoal. To either side, the walls were made up of rows of stone plaques etched with names and dates. Behind each, I assumed, was an occupant safely tucked in its coffin. A blue stained glass window near the back let in the only color, in the form of fragmented shards of light thrown across the stone floor. Scattered sapphires.

"Here it is," the caretaker said, his voice sounding even more nasal with the added echo, "Magnificent."

Gemma slipped a number of torches from his backpack, tossing one to each of us.

"Let's have a closer look."

"Don't shine the light too closely!" the caretaker cried, "The radiation...particles from the light could, er, leave a stain on the stone!"

I switched my torch on and brushed it over the names on the left-hand wall. So this was all that was left of the Dreycott family now–this and a cloud of mysteries.

"Here she is," Bernard said, quietly from the opposite wall. We gathered around him. The beam of his torch created a halo around the name "Hyacinth Dreycott".

It gave me a peculiar feeling when I realized the body of the girl linked to all the trouble at Dreycott lay just beyond a slab of stone.

"That's it?" Gemma said, "I was hoping for, like, a cryptic caption or something. A riddle."

"This is a tomb, not a joke shop," the caretaker said, "Why are you so interested in Hyacinth, anyway?"

Clive answered with a question of his own.

"Who was the last to be buried here?" He was shining his torch up the walls, until the beam was lost in the deep shadows of the ceiling.

"Well...that would be a while back now, wouldn't it?" the caretaker replied, "An older gentleman, I believe."

"Not a young man?" I asked, "Er...Peter Dreycott?"

"Peter Dreycott?" The man popped the lenseless monocle from his eye and used it to peer closer at me."Good heavens, you know about _him_?" He shook his head, "No. No, he wasn't buried here. He wasn't buried anywhere. They never recovered his body."

"His body?"

All five of us had froze in place, completely ensnared by his answer.

"You mean to tell me you've heard of Peter Dreycott, last heir to the Dreycott fortune, but don't know how he died? He cast himself in the River Thames. Took his own life. They never found him!"

We were silent as we looked to one another.

Another suicide in the Dreycott family? Why hadn't Mr. Crimp told Clive and I about it? I wrapped a strand of hair round my finger and pulled tight, wincing at the pinch. Then again, Peter had been his friend...perhaps it was simply too painful to speak of.

"That's a might dark, right there," Cogg murmured.

The mausoleum seemed a good deal colder now. I noticed the light through the window had faded.

"Have I said something upsetting?" the caretaker asked.

"Thank you," Clive said, switching off his torch, "I think we've seen enough."

We started out of the mausoleum, the caretaker locking the door behind us. The sun had disappeared behind the first of a flock of clouds that had come rolling in from the north.

As we headed back down the path, I saw Clive cast a forlorn look at the graves around him, his eyes glazed just as they were back at Gressenheller. That troubled expression he'd had when Constance had announced she was tired had returned, deeper, more pronounced.

"Alright, my turn to pick our destination," Gemma suddenly said. She had noticed Clive's expression, as well.

When we reached the car, she glanced at the street sign on the corner, "You know, I think I sort of recognize this area."

She beckoned Cogg to come closer and whispered something in his ear. He looked mildly surprised.

"Before lunch?" he said.

"Yes," Gemma answered, "We all need a break." She turned to the three of us, hands on her hips like a mother about to scold her children, "Alright, get in the car, you lot. I've got a surprise for the three of you."

"What?" Bernard said suspiciously, "Shouldn't we be getting back?"

"Oh! Just get in."

Cogg drove down the street and turned a number of corners, glancing at Gemma several times for confirmation. Finally, he turned onto a lane lined with small, quaint shops, stopping at an ice cream van parked at the corner.

"Just as I thought!" Gemma said, "My family comes here sometimes, they have the best flavors!"

"Ice cream?" Bernard scoffed, "It's nearly lunch."

"Oh, don't be such a fusty bucket. Everyone's in need of a cheering up. I got a little money saved, so it's on me."

"Gemma, you don't have to do that," I said, more out of automatic politeness than a true objection. Truthfully, I was happy for a chance to get my mind off the mausoleum.

"I want to!" Gemma said, "Now give me your orders, come on!"

Cogg parked near the corner. The five of us followed Gemma to the back of the van's short line. A chalkboard had been set nearby, proclaiming a dense list of flavors in colorful, cursive script.

"I always get Cherry Much in Love," Gemma said, as we stared blankly at the sign, "Don't be shy, get whatever you like! You too, Mr. Cogg!"

"'Rocky Romance'?" Bernard read, his face twitching in disgust, "'Butterly Devoted Brickle'?"

"Aren't they fun?" Gemma sighed, "It's the Lucky Lovers' Ice Cream Van! Legend has it if you share the same flavor with your sweetheart your destinies will be intertwined for all eternity."

"How horrifying," Bernard remarked.

The customer in front of us had just stepped away with cone in hand.

"C'mon!" Gemma pulled out her wallet, "What'll it be?"

Five minutes later we were seated nearby, on a low stone wall, watching cars pass and children and pigeons splash in the shallow fountain near the shops.

"Best ice cream I've ever had, Miss Gemma," Cogg said, making short work of his Pistachi _Oh Baby_! cone, "Spring and I will have to come back and share a flavor to, erm, intertwine our destinies."

He winked.

"Aw! I knew you'd like it," Gemma took a self-satisfied lick of her double-scoop cherry ice cream.

I had decided on Mint to Be, Clive Neapolitango for Two, and Bernard the low-fat plain vanilla frozen yogurt, which did not have a cutesy name and was served in a plastic cup.

For a few minutes we were silent as we ate our ice-cream. The sun had returned from behind the clouds and the lane was just sleepy enough that we could hear the chime of the far-off bell tower and the jingle of the shop doors opening and closing.

I found a contented stillness within me that usually only crept up when I was by myself. The heavy information we'd gathered that day, the worry of the tournament, of grandad and returning to Dreycott, faded before the sun warming my hair, the cool sweetness of the ice cream, and the odd joy of quietly observing my friends.

Each bite Bernard took was methodical, like he was conducting a science experiment. Gemma was already crunching away at her cone, her fingers sticky and pink. Clive paced himself, looking as though he was thinking very hard about something...so hard he didn't notice at first when a few fat drops of melting ice cream splashed onto his shoe. Cogg, meanwhile, was just finishing his.

"So, Miss Amelia," he said, dabbing at his beard with a napkin, "How are you liking London so far?"

"Well, it's not bad," I said.

Good old reliable brain. I pressed on, "It's, er, nice for a change."

"You used the word 'nice'," Bernard said,"Which means you're just being polite."

"Don't answer for her!" Gemma scolded.

"Bernard's just angry he didn't order what he really wanted to," Clive said, shooting him a sly smile, as he wiped off his shoe, "Because the name of the flavor was too embarrassing,"

I chuckled as Gemma's eyes widened.

"Yeah! What's your _real_ favorite flavor, Trewinkle! Be honest! Is it Cookie Doughn't Stop Loving Me?

"Written in the Stars Strawberry?" I said, squinting at the sign.

Bernard sniffed.

"For your information I detest strawberry."

"Perhaps its Caught in Bliss Candy?" Clive asked, referring to the blue cotton candy flavor the sign touted as being new.

"Caramelt in Your Arms?"

Bernard threw his hands in the air.

"No, if you must know, it's actually choco _hate you all,_ so leave me alone!"

There was stunned silence for a second, then we all burst out laughing, even Cogg.

"What? It wasn't that funny!" Bernard protested.

Gemma patted his shoulder.

"Your first pun. It was actually pretty good."

Bernard looked pleased for a split-second, then he tossed his cup into the nearby rubbish bin.

"That's it. I'm full."

"Come to think of it, so am I," I said, gazing apologetically down at my half-eaten cone.

"Full?" Cogg chuckled, "But you've still got dinner to look forward to." And wanting to inject his own sense of humor into the conversation, he continued on, eyes gleaming cheekily, "Or maybe in you're case it's...it's... din _not_! _HA, HAA_!"

We all groaned.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

_**The Story So Far. . .**_

 _Amelia, Gemma, and Bernard meet Clive's family, including his elderly adopted mother, Constance. After discussing the events of the last few months, the group speak with an old acquaintance of Constance's, Dr. Schrader, the next day and learn more about the oculus sapphire. A visit to the Dreycott family mausoleum, meanwhile, sheds further light on Peter Dreycott. . ._

 **Chapter Twenty-Four**

Following our day out in London, and with only three more to spare, I began in earnest my final preparations for the tournament.

As if mocking my resolve, anxious clouds continued to build throughout the week, swallowing the sun and coaxing out a straggly fog that stuck to the ground like greasy paper. Above this haze hung a stillness so heavy it seemed as though the entire sky was holding its breath, waiting for the rain to lighten its fuliginous burden and wash the stale air clean.

I wished there was some way to lighten my own load. Studying for a chess tournament, I had since realized, was not like studying for a test. You could memorize all the patterns and tactics and terms you wanted, but these were only jumbles of meaningless information unless put into practice on the chessboard. While I had more than enough time to do so, the problem was finding an opponent who could pose a serious challenge to me.

I did not even bother asking Gemma, who was more interested in developing characters out of the individual chess pieces or seeing how many she could stack into a tower than trying to win. Not that I held it against her. Chess was simply too restricting for her raging imagination.

Bernard, on the other hand, had the patience for it–although perhaps a little too much patience. He was a very cautious player and would sometimes spend up to ten minutes debating his next move. He rarely took risks which made for rather flat and linear strategy on his part.

Spring and Cogg were sympathetic, but neither had much by way of experience, to say nothing of how busy they were. The same held true for Constance, who was involved in a great many philanthropic endeavors which meant many important figures were in and out of Dove Manor on a daily basis, inquiring about charity balls, reporting the needs of the orphanages she supported, or delivering plans for the extensive hospital wing she was helping to design and fund.

This left me with Clive, who was quite willing to help. And he could both take the game seriously and make risky moves, even surprising me on occasion. While Bernard retreated to his room in the afternoon with a stack of books and Gemma tagged along after Spring, we would go to the chess set in the library just as we had at Dreycott.

That first afternoon we played, a Wednesday, felt like an extension of yesterday's sun-tinged holiday atmosphere, even as the light faded outside the windows. We talked and joked and exchanged the sort of outrageously arrogant banter we'd developed over many hours at the chessboard. I managed to pull off a rather effective pawn storm the first game, while Clive's gambit the second game had me on my toes the rest of the match.

Thursday, our games grew increasingly tense as I pushed myself to beat him in as few moves as possible. While the gloom continued to gather outside, our laughter dissipated. I felt the weight of the tournament each time I placed one of my pieces, wondering if this move or that would hold up in a truly competitive setting.

By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, and my number of straight wins grew, my wonder had faded to a sinking feeling, a hollow realization.

As admirable a player as Clive was, I had no way of knowing how he compared to the actual competitors in the tournament. I could beat him without too much difficulty, but was that really saying much? Without names or faces, I could only imagine the pupils I would be facing as shadowy figures, calculating geniuses, who decimated my troops with strategy and logic far more complex than my own.

As our second game progressed, my moves became mechanical. I began to succumb to a dull despondency, heavy as the clouds that loomed increasingly larger. Practicing further seemed useless. I knew I would beat Clive and that no longer provided me with any satisfaction.

Oblivious to all of this, my opponent calmly slid his rook to e3.

With something of an inward sigh, I swiftly capitalized on the mistake I'd been hoping he'd make the past few turns, capturing the piece and neatly setting it in line alongside the others.

And then, just as I looked up, he took my remaining knight.

"Wh-wha–?" I sputtered, feeling as though I had been pushed from bed, realizing too late my own enormous mistake. One glance at the board was enough to tell me things were now shifted in his favor. And right under my nose...

"Something the matter?" Clive asked, his eyes hooded as he lined up his own captured piece.

"But–I–"

My eyes flitted across the checkered squares. I had thought that piece safe, had already a general sketch of where I wanted it to go. With a newfound sense of urgency, I began working the board backwards in my head, as grandad had taught me to do, starting from the outcome I wanted to the current layout before me. How to get there...how to get there... I thrust a pawn forward only to have Clive immediately capture it.

No!

My face was burning now as the board lost focus in a blur of black and white. A stupid blunder. A blunder ten-year-old me would have made. I certainly was going backwards, but not in a way granddad would be proud of.

"–melia?"

My attention snapped back to Clive.

"What?"

"Your move. Unless you want to forfeit?"

That hint of smug in the corner of his smile made me bristle. He knew he'd got me flummoxed and was savoring every bit of it like a rat with a crumb of stolen cheese.

Without answering, I countered his move, suddenly on the defensive.

The next few minutes passed in silent, swift battle. The library was sweltering, now, the still air pressing hot against my temples.

I just had to regain the upper hand. Then I could relax. But– _infuriating!_ –Clive continued gaining ground across the board, forcing me to use cowardly evasive tactics.

"So this is what it feels like," Clive said, after taking out another pawn.

"What?"

My eyes were flitting again, looking for an opening like a desperate rabbit trapped in its own warren.

"To actually win,"

I jerked my roving eyes from the board to glare up at him. He was wearing that stupid sly smile again. My fists clenched.

" _Win_? We're still in the middle of the game. Don't be premature."

Even as I said the words, I felt panic tightening my stomach. He couldn't win. If he did, I had no right to be a part of any tournament.

Clive raised his eyebrows.

" _Well_ ," he said with an imperious chuckle, "At least _I'm_ not being a sore loser."

The words couldn't have scorched more if he'd flung a fireball alongside them. My face flared hot enough to bring tears of frustration to my eyes. I stood, my chair scraping against the wood floor.

"You know, why don't _you_ enter the tournament instead of me?"

The words spilled out before I could stop them, illogical and shrill.

Clive's smile faded in surprise.

"Amelia, I was only kidding."

I obliterated the tears with a rough swipe against my sleeve, disgust mingling with miserably damp self-pity.

"But you're right. And guess what's going to happen tomorrow? I'll lose the first round and start blubbering like an idiot because I came in thinking I actually knew something about chess."

Clive's brow furrowed.

"What are you talking about? You've never lost."

I had the childish urge to bring my hand down across the board and send the pieces scattering.

"To _you_. And what? Dreycott's chess club? I need _real_ competition."

As soon as I said it, I realized how callous it sounded. Not to mention terribly whiny and ungrateful after all he'd had done for me.

There was a sickening pause.

"Well, I'm sorry I don't qualify," Clive finally said, his tone stiff and measured as he continued to study the board. His expression was equally stiff, though I wondered if that was a bit of hurt I saw in his carefully averted eyes, "I suppose I've just been wasting your time. Would've been nice if you'd told me sooner."

I wanted to apologize but the words stuck in my throat, allowing a stony silence to descend.

"You can go," I finally managed, wincing at my tone, "Sorry for wasting _your_ time. I'll–I'll just practice by myself."

Clive stood up from his chair, pushing it in with studied carefulness.

"Fine. I've things to do, anyway."

He passed me without a glance. Right before he reached the door, however, I spoke up.

"Clive. Wait."

The words were hasty and spontaneous. A desperate last attempt to patch things up.

Clive stopped, turning to look at me over his shoulder.

"What?"

"I–I'm–I..." I squeezed my eyes shut. It was as if every fiber in my body were pushing against the words, rejecting them as though they were fatal was it so hard? Perhaps because if I apologized he'd think everything was alright, but it wasn't. Sore loser, sore loser, _sore loser_ , as if he could ever understand the pressure I was under.

"I..."

"Amelia."

I reopened my eyes. Clive had turned completely around. The cross set of his features had softened to...was it concern or pity? He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Look, you've been going at this for three days straight. Not to mention all the time you spent practicing summer term. You've done what you can. Let's take a break. Clear our heads."

"I don't need to clear my head. I need to keep filling it."

Now it was just my stubbornness speaking. I hated being lectured by him. Mostly because I knew he was right. I was exhausted from nights staying up late reading, tossing and turning as I tried picturing the tournament, anxious thoughts feeding into repetitive fever dreams that drove my mind in circles. My shoulders slumped slightly.

"I know what I'm doing," I said, my voice hollow and hard as ice, "Just leave."

I thought he would comply, then, but his next words caused me to blink in surprise.

"Let's go for a walk."

"A walk?" I scoffed as I glanced out the window, "It's so dark out there. It could rain any second."

"All the better," Clive twisted the doorknob, "I'm going anyway. You can come if you'd like. Or stay here moping."

He slipped out of the library, shutting the door quietly behind him.

From some unseen place, a clock ticked with steady precision.

I glanced back at the chessboard, at the unfinished game Clive could have won. Why was it only now I realized what my next move should be?

I sighed, my gaze returning to the door. I felt hardly in any shape to go anywhere or do anything other than study and stew, but after all the hours he'd spent helping me prepare, not to mention the mess I'd just made of things, I knew I owed him.

With a frustrated groan, I exited the library.

"Fine," I huffed, striding to catch up to him in the hallway, "Let's go for a walk in a downpour. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll catch pneumonia."

"You know, I've a better idea," Clive's sly smile had returned, "Follow me."

I made a show of rolling my eyes as we continued down the hall, but I couldn't help but be curious what he had in mind, if only to keep my thoughts from returning to the library.

I followed him out a side exit off the kitchen and down the path that wrapped around the manor, towards the gardens.

The air was even more oppressive than inside the library, heavy with a humidity that shallowed my breathing and seeped into every pore, sticking to my hair until it felt limp and greasy. The smell of wet loam was sharp in my nostrils.

Clive took a path that branched off the main, heading towards a small, well-kept garden shed. A slim man stood out front, resting against a spade, an enormous sandwich in his free hand. Shipley, the family gardener. I had already met him yesterday. He looked a bit shady with his sunglasses and nose hooked like a faucet below his yellow mustache, but he seemed friendly enough.

"The young sir," Shipley said, with a curt nod, "And Miss Amelia. Afternoon."

"Hello, Shipley," Clive said, "Slacking off?"

Shipley scoffed.

"I don't know why I bother with the 'sir'". Young devil is more like it," He nodded at me,"You can tolerate this boy's cheek?"

"Barely," I replied.

"It's true," Clive said, "Anyway, are the bicycles still in the shed?"

Shipley swallowed a bite of sandwich before speaking.

"Far as I know. Haven't cleaned it out in ages, you know."

"Brilliant."

Clive pulled open the shed's door. Together, we stepped into the gloomy space, cluttered with sacks and crates, garden tools and the scattered remains of some unidentifiable machine that someone had been tinkering with (Cogg, I assumed). Clive picked his way around the mess to the back of the shed, where he reached into the shadowy remains of a tarp and, with a grunt, pulled something out into the gray light.

It was a skeletal old bicycle with faded red handle bars, looking a bit dented and rusted and flaked and generally as if it was going to collapse in a heap at any moment.

"Hold this for me a second, will you?"

I grabbed onto the handle bars and balanced the bike as Clive pulled out a blue one that looked even more battered.

"Just how old are these?"

"They used to be Spring and Cogg's. They would bike all over London when they were younger."

We pulled the bikes out of the shed. Shipley laughed when he saw them.

"Lucky if you can get to the end of the drive on those, I'll say."

"Clive..." I looked skeptically down at the bike, "We're going to ride these?"

"There's a park about ten minutes from here. I thought it might do us some good to get a bit of exercise."

"In this weather?" Shipley said, "Gardener bones don't lie and I can tell you plainly that these clouds hanging over us are fit to burst."

"Do your gardener bones tell you when exactly?" Clive asked.

Shipley waved his sandwich.

"Bones aren't concerned with specifics."

"It would only be a quick jaunt there and back," Clive turned to me, "It's up to you, Amelia."

"It's not so much the rain I'm worried about," I said.

"Oh?"

"It's just, I've never ridden a bike before."

Never ridden a bike, never played any kind of sport, never could catch a ball even if the person was standing less than a meter away. If chess was at the top of the list of things I excelled at, then physical activity of any sort was at the very bottom. I did pride myself on being a fast runner on occasion, but I'd much rather be doing interesting things indoors, rather than outside, getting sweaty and sore.

"Hmm, that is a bit of a problem," Clive shrugged, "There's no help for it. I'll have to give you a crash course."

"A _crash_ course is exactly right," I said, nervously fiddling with my plait.

Clive dusted off the seat of his bike.

"I promise it's easy once you get the hang of it."

"And when exactly was the last time you rode?"

"Erm, it's been awhile...since Cogg taught me several years back, I think. But it's true what they say. You never forget."

I sighed, considering. I didn't want to break my arm right before the tournament. Still, I felt it would be rude to bail at this point, after Clive had gone to all the trouble to get the bikes out. And I didn't want him to think I was too much of a wet blanket to even try. Not that I hadn't already proved myself one that afternoon...

I straightened.

"I'll get on it," I said, "And if that goes well...then, maybe."

Shipley chuckled. He had been listening to our conversation with no small amount of amusement.

"I'll leave you two to it then," he said, wrapping up his half-eaten sandwich and tucking it in his satchel. "I shouldn't have to say this, but you two behave yourselves. And once you reach that park come straight home or you're liable to be washed down a drain."

He pointed a finger at Clive.

"This rascal gives you any trouble, Miss Amelia, you just tell me. I'll have him working like a dog the rest of the summer, pulling weeds and digging roots."

"I'll makes sure he behaves," I assured, flashing Clive, who was looking rather mortified, an innocent smile.

As soon as Shipley had left, muttering something about wild teenagers, Clive leant his bike against the shed and took ahold of mine.

"Alright, ready when you are," he said.

I stared at the bike, wondering how to approach it. Finally, grasping the handlebars for support, I swung one leg over, glad I had opted for shorts that day, and settled into the seat, my grip on the handlebars tightening. It was a precarious, teetering feeling, even with Clive holding it steady.

"Now, make sure your feet are on the peddles."

Shifting slightly, I glanced down and adjusted my feet.

"You push back on the peddles to break, forward to go, obviously, and of course, turn the handle bars to steer. It's all common sense."

"Right. Common sense," I said, trying to keep the quaver from my voice. I had faced down a living Statue and some of Dreycott's nastiest bullies, yet I had never felt more terrified.

"I'm going to let go now. Just try to stay on the path. Ready? Start peddling in three, two, one..."

Clive released his grip on the handlebars and my feet went to work. I wobbled down the path a few cycles before I suddenly strayed off the path and struck a bush. The bike nearly collapsed beneath me.

Clive jogged over to me as I slipped off to tug it from the branches.

"Hm. Well, not terrible for your first try."

"Really, Clive," I said. I wrenched the bike free. "Just brutal honesty, please. I'm dreadful."

"Alright, then. You're dreadful. But give it another shot."

I really didn't feel like catering to his optimism, but I also didn't want him to see me giving up so easily either, so we repeated the same trial again and again. An embarrassing number of attempts later, I was successful at keeping straight on the path, though stopping was another matter.

"Now what?" I said as I pedaled further away from the shed, turning the corner of the manor.

"Keep going!"

A moment later I heard the whir of another bike and there was Clive, pedaling beside me.

"I think you're ready," he said, before speeding ahead towards the drive.

"Hey! Wait!"

I pedaled harder, hitting the drive right after he did. By the time we'd reached the end and turned onto the lane, I'd caught up with him. I still felt a bit unsteady and awkward, but the road was smooth pavement now and there was a slight incline that carried my bike along like a boat down a swift current. The rush of air breaking the heavy stillness felt marvelous as my stomach dropped a bit. And then suddenly I was laughing like an idiot, both out of surprise and the sheer thrill.

"What do you think?" Clive called beside me.

"Rather be playing chess!" I called back, though my grin betrayed me.

Ten minutes and several turns later, the park came into view, a rolling grassy expanse near the bank of a small lake, dark in the gray light, lined with birch and elegant willows.

Clive turned in down the path and came to a smooth stop near the park's entrance, resting his feet against the ground. I fumbled with the breaks as I turned after him, feeling I was going a bit too fast.

"Wait, how do you–"

Too late. A hot second of surprised yelps and shooting pain, a blur of path and sky, limbs and handlebars, and then–sudden impact.

" _Ugh_..."

A woozy rush as my eyes tried refocusing on the blurry gray above me, my lungs desperate to take in the air that had just been knocked from them. I gasped. Beneath me was hard and scratchy. Scrahardtchy, haha, I made up a word. Every joint was on fire. Except my head which was on fire. The sun was on fire. Where was it? Too bright, but no sun. Ow.

"Amelia..."

A voice out of the gray, muffled and ethereal. Rather a lovely voice now I'd thought about it.

"What?" I murmured, just so I could hear it say my name again.

"Bike–crushing– my legs."

"Oh," I listened to my head throbbing and the _whump-whumph_ of blood in my ears and my knee stinging, wishing everything hurt less, "Oh!"

I sat up, my head rushing once more as it snapped into focus. Clive was laying flat on his stomach right next to me, his bike sprawled across his lower half, the wheels still spinning. I tugged it off and we gingerly helped each other to our feet.

"Are you alright?" I asked, "I'm so sorry. I was going too fast and–well, you were right in the way."

"Oh, I see how it is," Clive chuckled, checking himself over, "I apologize, even though it's all your fault. Is that about right?"

"No! That's not what I meant at all! Now please tell me you don't have any broke bones."

"Hm, don't think so. You?"

Miraculously, aside from a general soreness all over, I had sustained only a few bruises and a scrape on my knee that wasn't worth complaining about. I turned toward my own bike which was lying on its side near the path.

"I think my bike suffered worse."

"So did you actually forget how to use the breaks or was that payback for my almost winning?"

I elbowed him in the ribs, causing us to both wince.

"Don't start that again," I said weakly, rubbing my bruised elbow.

"Why, because it's true?" he wheezed, clutching his side.

"No! The game could have easily gone either way."

We righted our bike, checking for damage, although it was rather hard to tell seeing as they were already so dented and scraped.

"So, you're still saying there was a fifty percent chance I could've won?" Clive continued, as we walked our bikes down the path.

I bit my lip. He could be just as stubborn as me when he wanted, couldn't he?

"Okay, fine," I grumbled, " _Yes,_ you _could_ have won. And–I'm sorry for what I said,"

Heat prickled my face, as I looked away.

"It's just... for you to get the upper-hand like that...it surprised me. I don't like admitting it, but maybe you're a better player than I thought."

"Only because I've had such a good teacher."

His kindness stung even more than his cheeky remarks. I squeezed my bike's handlebars, feeling worse than before about what I'd said to him.

"Look, we better get back before the rain starts."

Even as I said it I realized how little desire I had to once again put myself at the mercy of the contraption that had nearly killed us both. Though I was probably to blame more than anything. Pushed to the ground my first night at Dreycott, leaning too far in my chair whilst spying, being tossed down a hole full of rubbish...I seemed to have developed a habit of falling flat on my face no matter the circumstances.

"You're bleeding."

I followed Clive's concerned gaze to my knee, where little red droplets had begun to well in the raw skin.

I rubbed at the scrape with my sleeve, which only made it sting more.

Clive nodded towards a lone bench sitting near the bank of the lake.

"We could sit down a moment before we head back. I still feel a bit woozy, actually."

"Okay. I guess I'm not in any hurry to crash again."

We parked our bikes nearby and settled onto the bench.

A single fishing boat bobbed in the middle of the lake, its occupant already garbed in a bright yellow raincoat. The water was dark and smooth like a shard from a murky brown bottle, faint straggles of mist drifting over its surface. Lovely in a dismal sort of way.

If only I could actually enjoy it. With the shock of the crash subsiding, my mind was already returning to the chess set in the library. To think I had been excited about the tournament for a time. Now all thoughts of it only produced in me a misery as dour as the weather. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to make a fool of myself. Chess was the one thing I really knew, the one thing I could take comfort in when I botched everything else. But if I botched that...if I wasn't as good as I thought I was...

Clive cleared his throat.

I turned to see he had produced his notebook and pen from his pocket. He sat up straighter as he unscrewed the cap.

"So...it's the eve of your big tournament and I'm sure you must be feeling a bit nervous, but I was wondering if you might be willing to answer a few questions?"

I stared at him in bafflement, thinking he must have really hit his head hard. His tone had taken on a formality he'd never used towards me before. Then I realized. My eyes narrowed.

"Wait–Clive, are you–are you trying to interview me?"

Clive stuck his nose in the air like he was some high and mighty journalist, though I could see a bit of a smirk breaking through his charade.

"Off the record of course. Though I _do_ need practice doing professional interviews for when I start work for the Daily Dreycott. I suppose you'll do."

I wanted to slap the smug from his face, but I hesitated. After all those stupid things I'd said, as well as crashing into him, and here he was trying to make me feel better with some ridiculous mock interview. I sighed, realizing I would never forgive myself if I didn't play along. Not to mention his snobbish tone was driving me mad. Naturally, I had to outdo it.

"Ah, professional interviews. I see," I sat up straighter myself, placing my hands in my lap like I thought a _professional_ chess player might do. "Alright, then, Mr. Reporter. Do your worst."

Clive flipped open to a fresh page in his notebook.

"Mr. Dove should suffice, Miss Ruth."

My face grew hot again.

"And _Amelia_ will suffice for me, thank you very much."

Clive tsked.

"Professional, remember?"

"Oh, just get on with it."

He nodded.

"Right then. First, tell me how you came to be interested in chess."

"Haven't I, already?"

A sniff.

"I believe you've told me prior that your grandfather taught you when you were around six years of age, but that's the extent of my limited knowledge."

I tried not to groan. How to tell Clive that professionalism and arrogance were maybe not quite the same thing?

"Well..."

I bent forward, resting my head against the heel of my hand, my elbow digging into my thigh, thinking how best to answer the question. _Professionally or honestly?_ I decided on somewhere in between.

"Back when I was six, my family was going through a–er–a rough time. Dad was always out looking for work and mum...was sick. Granddad moved in to help take care of me. I think he was lonely, though. He missed London. He wanted someone who could play chess with him."

"And that was you?"

"Not at first. Actually, I thought it looked like a boring game and I didn't want anything to do with it. Or him."

Clive was silent, waiting for me to continue.

"But, after awhile, I started watching him. In secret. I, er, would hide under the table and things like that. He would pretend he didn't notice me."

I found myself smiling at the memory.

"And he started saying things out loud while he played both sides of the board. He made up funny characters, glasses on for White and glasses off for Black. White was very friendly, but, erm, a bit senile. He always forgot how to play. So Black would have to tell him the most basic facts," I laughed softly, "Black was always peeved, with a low, grumbling sort of voice. Sort of reminds of Bernard now."

I noticed Clive had raised his eyebrows.

"What? No! He wasn't crazy, I promise. He was trying to teach me. He explained about all the pieces and about castling and the fifty-rule move...stalemate. And then one day he–White was playing particularly bad and he couldn't even remember where the pawn could go. And you know what I did?"

"What?"

I shook my head.

"I was a bit of brat as a child, I think, because I jumped up on the other chair and I snatched the pawn out of granddad's hand and showed him where he should go."

"And what did your granddad do?"

I chuckled.

"I got scared. I thought he would be mad at me for bothering him. But he started laughing and then he told me my move wasn't the best and I should have gone to c4 instead. So that's how it started–that's when he started teaching me for real."

Clive scribbled something in his notebook.

"I see. And so when did you discover you had a knack for it?"

"Not for a while. It wasn't like I was immediately good or anything. I would become so frustrated sometimes...but I– I always wanted to keep going."

Memories of that time were spilling freely into my head now, how I had come to look forward to only time spent with granddad at the chessboard.

"It was a bit of a chaotic time," I said quietly, looking down at my hands, "But chess kept me 's order and rules. It's logical. And the older I got, the more I thought that if I could be good at it, really good at it, I could spread that logic to the rest of my life," I fiddled with a strand of hair, the usually soft gold made dull and lifeless by the gray humidity, "I thought so, anyway."

I went silent, realizing I'd tripped a bit too far into honest territory. Clive set down his notebook.

"Sorry," I said, "I didn't mean to bore you."

"No, don't apologize," he replied. He put hand to his chin, his eyes growing distant in thought. "I think I know what you mean."

His arrogant tone had completed faded. I waited, curious.

"I spent almost a year in an orphanage, you know."

"I –I can't imagine," I said, somewhat surprised.

"I don't like to think about it. That was the most chaotic time in _my_ life. Just getting through each day was–let's just say I lived by the hour. Sometimes the minute. Honestly, I'm not sure I would've made it, if I hadn't found something..."

"What?" I asked.

"Someone was snitching food from the kitchen. Not too surprising. The place was poorly managed. No one had the time or energy to really look into it."

"Ah, I think I know where this is going."

Clive smiled faintly.

"Yes. I started listening, and observing, writing things down, questioning people. Looking for answers. The other boys started calling me 'clueless Clive'. Clever, right? That's how annoyed they were."

I chuckled.

"Did you ever figure it out?"

"No. I was adopted before I got the chance. But even though that's behind me, I can't seem to stop. Searching for answers, I mean," Clive bit his lip, as though he were struggling to come up with the right words, "My mind needs something to occupy itself, something that focuses all its energy and attention, drives it forward, otherwise..." he trailed off, "Is, er, is that how you feel about chess?"

"I think so," I said, heaving a shrug, "We all need a bit of sanity, I suppose."

"Exactly. Well...more like a bit of truth. And if I find it, I can follow it to any answer, maybe–maybe even to the ones I need most. It's like that one old story–like trying to navigate a dark maze, but all you have is a spool of thread."

He suddenly laughed, dry and self-deprecating.

"I suppose I need more practice with this. Reporters are supposed to collect sob stories, not spout their own."

"No," I said, "Don't call it that."

A thread through a maze. I understood, then, what he was trying to say.

"Chess is my thread," I continued, "I'm not sure if that's good or bad, but I know it is. Chess and granddad."

I cringed. Had I really said that out loud? But Clive, still wearing a pensive look, only nodded, studying the grass at his feet.

"My mother is like that for me," he said, "During those first months, she would sit up with me, all night sometimes, and we would talk and play games and read. We even baked a cake once and ate the entire thing that night," His smiled faded, " I knew how tired she was, but she wouldn't leave until she was sure I'd fallen asleep," He paused, "Those nights were so long. She made them bearable."

His expression had shifted to the same he'd worn when we'd split up at Gressenheller, after Constance had announced she was tired. I couldn't help but wonder how often that same worry had clouded my own countenance.

"Is she not doing well?" I asked in a low voice, hoping the words were gentle enough. A creeping dread had begun to climb up from my stomach.

Clive swallowed, unable to meet my gaze.

"She's ill, sometimes. Nothing serious," he sighed, "I know I worry too much. But she's nearly eighty now... of course she won't live forever, but I can't bring myself to– I feel like I'm in denial about it."

The dread suddenly reached my heart, encapsulating it in ice.

"Granddad's sick, too," I blurted, "He was in hospital a few months ago and that's part of the reason why I wasn't going to be able to come back."

I watched Clive's brow knit as he registered my tumble of words.

"Amelia, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't," I didn't mean to snap the words, but the tell-tale burn of tears was starting to blur my vision. I turned away, "I didn't want anyone to know."

"He is well enough to travel?"

The question surprised me enough to turn back to Clive.

"He's back at home now and he is doing a bit better. Still, I worry about him, too, sometimes so much I get sick to my stomach."

It felt good to say it, if only to exchange the large and dark something that ate at the edges of my mind for small, simple words.

Clive nodded again. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"It's exhausting," he murmured, "Sometimes...do you wish you could distance yourself? From people, I mean?"

"Oh," I frowned, not sure I wanted to answer, "Er, I don't know. Do you?"

Clive glanced at the scrape on my knee.

"Riding a bike, there's always that chance you'll get hurt. It's the same when you care about someone, I suppose. Something goes wrong and you crash and you bleed and break," He rubbed his brow, which had darkened over his troubled eyes, "You wonder why you ever tried in the first place when it's so much safer just to keep it locked away in some garden shed."

His next words were so soft that, if the air hadn't been as still as it was, I never would have heard him.

"Locked away...so you won't end up hurting someone, yourself."

I was silent. Wondering.

Beneath his cool exterior, Clive was perhaps one of the kindest boys I knew. But there was another side to him. The Clive who had grabbed Felix from across the table when he'd called him an orphan, fire flashing in his eyes. The Clive who'd wrenched himself away from me to rescue two people who could never be saved.

His parents...they were the reason. I realized, then, that I envied him. Not because he'd lost his parents, but that he still held them so close. That he _was_ willing to bleed and break for them, would fight for them if necessary. That he felt so much when I felt nothing for my own parents.

My parents...

It had been a long time since I'd let myself think about what happened with them all those years ago, but telling Clive about granddad had made the memories as fresh as yesterday's.

I wasn't angry with my them. I didn't hate them for what happened, how they had shut me out, how dad had left early each morning and returned late at night too exhausted to barely glance my way, how mum had sat in bed and kept watch out the window with eyes empty as the winter sky. Granddad had moved in and, eventually, they moved on and everything had returned to normal in our house. There was no wound, just a hollow divot where maybe one should have been. I loved them. Of course, I loved them. But sometimes that divot felt like a gulf.

Was that the real reason I clung to chess? Feelings didn't matter there, after all, whether one had them or lost them or stifled them until they were as good as lost. Safe and still as a bicycle in a locked shed or a tomb of marble and ebony, one that drained what little warmth was left in the cavity of my chest.

"At least you try," I said in a quiet voice, "Even if you have hurt someone. At least you can say you were brave enough to try."

Clive cocked his head at me.

"What do you mean?"

I drew in a shaky breath.

"I don't wish I could distance myself, Clive. I–I think I'm already there."

"Amelia..."

"A lot of things happened when I was little and... I think I lost something," I gazed out into the dark lake, thinking again of the careless words I'd said to him earlier that afternoon, "I'm cold now. "

Clive studied me.

"I don't think you're cold."

"I am. When you first asked me to help you, after you told me about the Statue, I thought you were the cold one. It was almost a relief to think that, actually. Because after you stood up for me that first night I–I didn't understand–I couldn't accept–" I struggled against the growing lump in my throat,"Why–why would you do that?"

This last question had emerged so feeble and cracked and unexpected that the flicker of shame within me suddenly kindled into anger. My fists tightened as I stood up from the bench.

"But I don't care if I am cold. And I don't need you or anyone else to tell me I'm not or–or try to make me feel like I'm worth something. I'll prove it tomorrow. I'll win. I'm sick of being scared about it when I've never lost before. I can beat anyone. Except–" my voice faltered, "Except granddad."

Who was I kidding? Granddad was all the evidence anyone needed to see how weak I was, to see that my coldness was just a front for something even worse. Cowardice. Because I did care about someone. And just the thought of losing him sent my mind reeling with a terror I'd never felt about anything else.

I stiffened as I felt the warmth of another hand, gentle, but firm, slip its way past the tightness of my fist.

"Amelia,"

I jerked around to Clive, ready to wrench myself away, until I saw his expression. Like someone careening down a steep slope, unsure where they might land.

"I–listen, I care about you. And I don't think you're cold. You're thoughtful and–and gentle–and I'm–I'm saying all this because it's true and you deserve to know, not because I'm trying to make you feel like you're worth something. But maybe–maybe it's a reminder of that? That you already are, that you always have been, your own person."

A resolve hardened in his eyes.

"Because it's _you_ I care about, not if you win or lose or how good you are at chess. Because even without all that, even without chess or me saying any of this, you're still Amelia."

The lump seemed to have doubled in size. I swallowed it back, hot and painful, as I forced out words that only wanted to stay firmly lodged.

"I care about you, too," I said, wishing I knew better what exactly I meant by that, "I still think about what happened in the rotunda, all the time, how you tried to get through that fire. I just wanted to help you," I pressed on, "And–and remind you too?"

I felt my grip on his hand tighten as I remembered how hard I'd held onto to him to keep him from dashing into the flames.

"You did remind me," Clive said softly, "That I still had–"

There was another crack of thunder, one that made the ground shudder beneath our feet. The sound had barely died away when it was swallowed by an equally terrible hissing roar as a heavy curtain of rain swept across the park, obscuring the trees, churning the lake, and pelting us with a fury of icy needles.

With breathless gasps, we stumbled away from the bench, relentless cold drenching our clothes, plastering our hair, burrowing into our socks and shoes, obscuring our vision. Clive slipped on the already slick grass, but I pulled him up before he could fall.

"There!" he choked, pulling me toward some looming gray-green shape. After what seemed like an eternity of scrambling through the torrent, we pushed past a number of long, fibrous strands and the agony stopped. I could still hear its continuous hissing, only slightly subdued, as we stood sputtering and coughing, pushing the water from our eyes and bangs, clothes clinging to freezing skin, soaked to the bone.

When I'd finally caught my breath, I noticed in the faint gloom that Clive was clutching something to his chest.

"Y-your notebook!"

"It-it'll dry."

He slipped in back in his pocket. My gaze moved beyond him and I realized we had taken refuge beneath the branches of a silvery willow near the bank. Peering out between the strands revealed a steady sheet of rain.

"Well. Sh-shipley's bones were spot on."

I shivered as I pulled my head back in, goosebumps rippling up my arms and legs. Clive's own arms were folding tightly as he leant against the willow's trunk, his teeth chattering.

"S-sorry, Amelia. N-now I suppose we'll–we'll both catch our deaths before the tournament tomorrow."

"Don't t-tell me this wasn't your plan all along."

"Wha-what would be the point in th-that?"

"I dunno. I thought you might pull out an umbrella so you could be all heroic and gentlemanly or s-something."

"I should have brought one. That was careless."

Clive looked so solemn and regretful, then, shivering next to me, that I reached out to take his hand again, determined to hold on even though his fingers felt clammy and cold as a frog's.

"Your fin-fingers are you freezing," I said scornfully.

He chuckled.

"N-not as bad as yours."

His hair was flattened and darkwith rain while his bangs still hung in his eyes, plastered to his forehead. Perhaps it was only because I had seen Constance do it so many times, but I reached forward with my free hand to brush them to the side.

"Not–not so professional, now, Mr. Reporter," I chided, trying to keep my own teeth from chattering.

Clive responded by tucking a wet strand of my own hair behind my ear.

"You should see yourself, _miss_."

And it was then, with a feathery warmth in my chest and a fledgling dizziness in my head–not the sort of dizziness I'd experienced after my crash but rather what I imagined a bird might feel its first time aloft–I realized I liked it when he called me that, though, of course, I would never let him know. Then again, perhaps my scalding blush had already betrayed me. I did not feel the slightest bit cold now, yet still I shivered.

"Thanks for the bike ride," I said, though I knew the words encompassed so much more than the brief ride to the park, "Even if you _are_ a bit of a lousy teacher."

Clive frowned.

"Oh, is that so? Well, you're not exactly–"

I cut him clean off with a quick, tip-toed kiss to the cheek. Checkmate.

Clive made a strangled sound in the back of his throat as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs, blinking dazedly past a flush of pink. Before he could get a word out, however, a voice caught our attention, cutting sharply through the rain.

"Young sir! Miss Amelia!"

The voice was distant, but drawing closer.

"Young sir!"

We broke apart and pushed our way past the willow branches. The rain had let up slightly, allowing us to glimpse a lone figure standing across the park, torch cutting through the shroud.

"Over here!" Clive called.

Moments later, Cogg came running towards us, wrapped in a dark rain coat and hat, boots squelching the wet grass beneath him.

He shone his torch into the branches.

"There you two are! Shipley told us you'd gone for a ride and Madame was getting worried. Come on. Let's get you two home."

Opening an umbrella, he ushered us out from the willow and we hurried to his car parked near the entrance, wind-shield wipers beating full force.

"In you go. I'll get your bicycles."

Clive opened the car's back door for me. As soon as we slid in, Spring, sitting in the front, was over us like a mother hen.

"There you two are! Oh, we were so worried! It's a miracle you're not both drowned!"

Her flurry of exclamations continued as she threw an enormous quilt over the both of us and proceeded to wrap us so tightly neither of us could get a word in edgewise for want of air. Cogg returned soon after, tying our bikes to the back of his car before hopping in the driver's seat.

The ride home was rather a blur, with Spring lecturing us the whole way (though it was quite evident she was more relieved then anything) and Cogg offering a grunt of assent every few sentences or so, eyes never leaving the deluge flooding the roads.

I was too busy feeling my own sort of relief to listen much, the primal relief of slowly being made warm and dry after terrible cold and wet. Though I wondered if the quilt was the only reason for the warmth or if I hadn't already begun to feel it in the soggy damp under the willow. I tried hard to ignore how very cramped the backseat seemed.

When we finally arrived back at Dove Manor, we were ordered our separate ways to change into dry clothes with the incentive of a late tea with Constance in the drawing room.

After I had swapped out my sopping shorts and shirt, I peeked in at Gemma as I toweled off my hair. She was sat at her room's desk, hunched over a heap of craft materials: newspapers, bottles of glue, black and white paint, scissors, and several glitter shakers

"Gemma?"

She glanced over her shoulder.

"Amelia!" she cried, nearly toppling out of her chair in her effort to cover up whatever was on the desk, "Don't look!"

"What? Why?"

"I'm working on a surprise!"

She scrambled up and over to her bed, "Close your eyes!"

I obliged. When she told me I could open them, I saw the desk had been covered with her bedspread, leaving a tall, oddly-shaped lump.

"There we go. So where've you been anyway? I heard some sort of fuss downstairs."

I sat down next to her on the edge of the bed.

"We rode bikes to the park that's not far from here. Er, Clive and I, that is."

I almost wished I would've made up a different story. Gemma's face lit up like a lighthouse beacon. She was always looking for a reason to tease me about Clive. Now I'd gone and handed her fresh material.

"And you got caught in the rain together?"

There it was. That last word, spoken with obvious relish, betrayed her intentions hadn't I bypassed her room and went straight to tea?

"Yes, but _no_ , it wasn't like that."

"Wasn't like what? What happened?"

I was blushing again I thought how to quickly escape the hole I'd dug. It should've been simple. Clive and I were just friends, after all. I wasn't ready to start thinking about all that other stuff...things that many of the other girls at Dreycott had already made their primary topic of conversation: boyfriends and dating and snogging and...other similar ideas. Maybe I would never be ready. But then what had happened under the willow tree, before Cogg had found us?

Only the rain, how sudden and fast and cold the downpour had been, and the stress of the tournament, and everything we had talked about, what he'd said to me on the bench when he'd taken my hand, all loosening the logic in my head until it was all backwards and turned around and muddled until I'd only been acting on that wonderfully warm feeling that still lingered inside of me. I hoped it would fade before it caused any more trouble.

"We just talked for a bit and then it started raining. Spring and Cogg came to get us a few minutes later."

"Oh, is that all?" Gemma didn't sound convinced. Her eyebrows were about to lift off her face.

"What's that look?"

"Everyone knows what this look means, Amelia."

I felt irritation tighten my stomach. I let the towel fall to my lap.

"Yes, that was all. I don't know what you thought–"

"Amelia! I'm only joking."

"Are you? Because I don't find it very funny," I didn't mean to snap at her, but I was feeling more confused by the second. Because she was right, there had been more, first at the masquerade and now at the park, and what to do with that more, I had no idea.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking a bit hurt, "Gosh, you're mad at me now, aren't you?"

"No," I said, "I'm not mad at you. I just–I'm tired and the tournament's tomorrow...and how would you like it if I teased you about Bernard all the time?"

Gemma made a face.

"That's just mean, Amelia. Marrying Bernard would be like marrying a uni textbook written by a sarcastic old man or something."

I groaned.

"I never said anything about marrying him."

"And I never said anything about you marrying Clive. So stop acting like I did, will you?

"Gemma," I paused, trying not to speak on frustration alone, "I feel like Clive and I are friends now, really friends, and I–I don't want that to change."

Gemma took off her glasses, fiddling with the frames. She sighed.

"Okay, I get it," she said, "Really I do. Sometimes I see you two and I can't help myself. I guess I didn't realize it bothered you so much."

"It's alright," I allowed myself a sigh, "Honestly, it's confusing. Being around him. It's not like being around you and Bernard. Not that I'm better friends with him or anything. It's just...different," I suddenly stiffened as a horrifying revelation dawned on me, "And I've been so worried about my hair and my clothes lately and I think–I think it's because of him."

I rubbed my forehead.

"It's stupid talking about it. I always poke fun at the other girls at Dreycott, but here I am doing the exact same thing."

Gemma snorted.

"Amelia, I swear, sometimes..."

"What?"

She replaced her glasses.

"It's okay to talk about. Don't beat yourself up about it. We can talk about anything. I mean just yesterday we were talking about–" she tilted her head, "Er, what was it again?"

"Um, how I was going to help you escape from prison if you were framed for murder?"

She smiled a little too brightly.

"Exactly!" she chuckled, "But don't worry, I'm sure Clive's probably feeling even more confused than you are. But that doesn't mean you can't still be friends, I think. Just, er, make sure you talk about things. Don't bottle everything up. Nobody's a mind reader, you know."

I was about to protest the idea of Clive feeling more confused when I remembered his reaction when I'd kissed his cheek. Perhaps we were both neck deep in something neither of us would ever understand. But I hoped Gemma was right.

Feeling a bit better, I stood.

"I'd better go down. Constance wants us to have tea with her."

"Alright, alright. Good talk. I'll be here, working on the surprise. You're going to love it!"

I wasn't sure I liked the sudden mad scientist glint in her eye, but I left her to it. Hurrying downstairs, I made my way down the hallway off the dining room. The door to the drawing room was slightly ajar, but before I could push it open I heard the one word guaranteed to make any person freeze.

"...Amelia. Do you think this tournament is putting too much strain on her? The poor girl looks like she hasn't been getting any sleep. And I'm sure getting soaked to the bone didn't help matters."

This last bit was spoken with a tinge of motherly disapproval. I knew it was terribly rude to listen in, especially on someone who had been so kind to me, but hearing my name in conversation was too tempting and so my feet stayed firmly planted, ears straining.

"That was my fault," Clive spoke up, a bit sheepishly, "I know she looks a bit frail, from the outside, but she's not really."

I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. Didn't really deserve to be either, seeing as what I was doing.

"You're quite fond of her, aren't you?"

Silence, followed by a brief sigh.

"Clive," The clink of china, "You're getting older and you're already becoming just the sort of gentleman I hoped you'd grow into. But there's a time to be silent and a time to talk. Don't you suppose it's time we talked about Dreycott? About Amelia and these recent events. They're very troubling. You know I trust you, dear, but I'm not sure if it's safe anymore."

Uh-oh. What should I do? If I barged in now I wouldn't end the conversation, but I'd certainly delay it. Not that Constance was wrong. Not that she didn't have a right to be worried. I took a step back...maybe I should just go back upstairs for now...

Just as I turned round, however, I heard a number of voices coming from the entry hall, including Cogg's. It sounded like they were headed this way...

That settled it. I opened the door and slipped into the room before I was seen.

Both Clive and Constance, facing each other across the low table, started a bit when I came in.

"There you are, Amelia," Constance quickly composed herself, her serious expression softening to a smile, "Just in time. Come have some tea, dear."

She gave Clive a significant glance as if to say the conversation was far from over. He returned a slight nod.

I tried ignoring the exchange as I sat down next time him. We glanced at one another. He was wearing his rumpled green jumper, his hair still wet, but neatly combed for once.

"Sorry about what happened," he said quickly.

"No! Don't apologize,"

I poured myself some tea.

"If you want we could go back to the library later today. I'd even be willing to start a new game."

"What?" I replied, "And destroy your one chance of actually beating me? Of course we have to finish it."

Clive raised his eyebrows.

"And if I win?"

"And if you win...?" I repeated.

He grinned.

"You have to go bicycling with me again, sometime."

I tossed my plait over my shoulder.

"Sorry, but I'd rather keep all my limbs intact."

"Nearly five," Constance announced. She'd been watching us with crinkled eyes, which now sparkled with a mischievous glint. "They should be arriving any minute now."

"What?" Clive said, looking puzzled, "But their train isn't set to arrive until tomorrow."

"Who?" I took a sip of tea, wondering what sort of visitors they were expecting this time.

"It seems they managed to book the Molentary Express at the last minute," Constance replied with a smile that matched her eyes.

The Molentary Express? That was a familiar name. It was a luxury train that made frequent stops in Luxenbelle. Tickets were notoriously pricey.

"Of course," Clive said, shaking his head. A small smile had crept to the corners of his mouth.

"This way they can enjoy dinner with us," Constance said, "And I thought Amelia might like to get a bit of special practice in before the tournament."

"What are you talking about?" I repeated, glancing between the two, my curiosity burning.

The answer to my question was not longer in coming at all. In fact, as soon as the words left my lips, Cogg was at the door, ushering in two people who caused me to immediately stand, legs shaking, my teacup falling from my hand.

"Granddad!"


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

_**The Story So Far. . .**_

 _Amelia and Clive spend the afternoon together the day before the long-awaited chess tournament. Their trip to the local park, however, is cut short by a sudden downpour. Returning to the manor reveals another surprise: Amelia's granddad, who's just arrived by express. . ._

 **Chapter Twenty-Five**

The morning of the tournament found me in the backseat of a luxury car, sandwiched between my granddad and a chess knight.

It would've been easy to believe this setup was just another anxiety-fueled dream, the kind that usually involved arriving five hours late to the tournament or else shouting "checkmate" at an encroaching black king, tall as a bell-tower, as I back-pedaled into a void. Three things, however, dispelled this notion.

First, there was my own state, rigid and alert as a rabbit startled by a twig-snap. I was far too awake to be dreaming, far too conscious of my placement in the middle seat of the car; of my shoes, which were one size too big, allowing my toes to thrash about as they suffocated in the fabric of my tights; of the stiffness of my collar, chafing the back of my neck; and of my prickling scalp, pulled taut by symmetrical plaits.

Next to me, granddad pressed my hand in his own. His frail grip was strengthened by its warmth and I relaxed–if only slightly. This gesture constituted the second reason. None of my dreams were ever so generous with small details.

I looked over at him. With his free hand, he was scribbling away at the daily crossword as morning-scrubbed London flitted by outside the window. His red jumper brought out the color in his cheeks, though I still couldn't help but notice how thin he looked compared to the last time I'd seen him. His cheek bones were more pronounced now; the cut of his profile more haggard. His blue eyes, usually so keen, were somewhat bleary, set in hollow sockets that his spectacles could no longer conceal.

He noticed me studying him and looked up, stroking his corn-silk beard.

"'To vex'. Nine letters. Any ideas?"

Before I could reply, the chess knight sitting to my left straightened.

"Ooh, I've got it!" the knight cleared her throat, "C-H-E-S-S, what does that spell? It's the best! Amelia, Amelia, she won't rest! Until she...uhm, she's...guest...behest...fester..."

The cheer faded into heavy silence, save for the hum of the car and the traffic outside.

"For the last time," said a beleaguered voice from the front passenger seat,"It's not a football tournament. Now, take off that hat and have a modicum of respect for the game."

And this was perhaps the most convincing reason of all that I was not in a dream. My subconscious could never hope to match the absurdity of a verbal fisticuffs between Bernard and Gemma.

"No one respects chess more than I do," Gemma, the chess knight in question, reassured. Her expression would have been solemn if it wasn't for the fact that her face was split evenly down the middle by a healthy coating of black and white paint. "Except for maybe Amelia and her granddad."

Gemma glanced over to granddad.

"Do you think I look disrespectful, Mr. Ruth?"

Granddad adjusted his spectacles.

"Hardly, Gemma. In fact, I think you look...well, that is to say...Ehm..."

He trailed off, seemingly at a loss as he continued to squint at Gemma. She was wearing the costume she had cobbled together herself only yesterday. Alongside her face-paint, she wore a jumper, trousers, and boots laced to her knees, all black as ink. Completing the ensemble was a paper-mache horse head hat with bulging, googly eyes and a coat of glitter that bled onto her long hair and shoulders. When she moved, the eyes rolled in their sockets and the sparkles caught the sunlight, drifting about her like a cloud of fairy dust.

"Ridiculous," Bernard supplied, "Embarrassing. Honestly, it makes me question why I continue associating with you, Mudget."

Gemma's costume was acting as a weight on his usual dour mood, sinking it to an even murkier depth that I had thought possible. The two had been at each other's throats since breakfast, when he'd slunk into the room only to be greeted by a paint-cracking smile and a cheery,

"Hullo!"

Bernard had stumbled away from Gemma as if struck, a string of incoherent expletives finally leading into an outraged,

"What the _hell_ are you wearing?"

"I'm a chess knight, you plebeian," Gemma had replied with a sniff, "Now, no swearing at the breakfast table."

She'd promptly returned to her bacon and eggs while the rest of us tried in vain to stifle snickers at Bernard's twitching, scandalized expression.

"It's a very creative idea," granddad finally said. He winked, "Perhaps you can make me a hat like that to wear if I ever manage to attend another Olympiad."

Gemma beamed.

"It would be my chessly pleasure, Mr. Ruth."

Bernard groaned.

"Do you–do you _hear_ yourself, sometimes?"

"Ha! Only when you're not around."

As the two continued their back-and-worth, granddad leaned closer to me.

"Are they always like this?" he whispered.

"Yes," I replied, rolling my eyes "But don't worry. They both secretly enjoy it."

"I see," Grandad scratched his beard, "You know, I think I'd win a match against Steinitz before I understood half of what goes on between the youth of today."

He chuckled, a throaty _hm-hm-hm_ that would peter off into a higher pitched _heh-hee_ when he was really tickled. Yesterday he had foregone both in favor of a long, rich laugh like I hadn't heard from him in a long time. I had felt the sound myself, rising from deep in his chest as I embraced him in the middle of the drawing room.

Supper last night had been even more lively than my first at Dove Manor. Even though he spent most of his time "puttering about the house", as he put it, granddad had a whole jumble of stories to share about what had gone on while I was away, from when he'd accidentally knocked over the wooden bird house dad had been working on for years and attempted a hasty patch-up job, to the afternoon he tried organizing the attic, only to become sidetracked by moldering photo albums and lengthy letters. Dull anecdotes in the hands of a lesser storyteller, but even though granddad tended to ramble, he was so sincere and enthusiastic that he soon had everyone enraptured between bouts of laughter and second helpings.

Afterwards, the two of us had played chess out on the veranda, watching the gardens fade to a dusky blue crowned with a garland of stars. Granddad had won the match, but not without a bit of a struggle.

"You've certainly improved since last time," he'd said to me, "I'm seeing stronger coherence in your tactics. You've begun to realize that each individual move contributes to a whole. That even as you arrange separate pieces you must keep the entire board, the game from start to finish, in the back of your mind at all times. This– _this_ , Amelia– is the true foundation of effective strategy."

His encouraging words held carefully in my mind, I had awoken that morning feeling better about the tournament than I had all month. The fear of losing, of letting slip some small part of me that was still six-years-old, had faded; still present, but more wisp than substance, now. A pallid ghost kept at bay by a newly kindled confidence. I actually felt a bit restless and excited at the prospect of facing fresh opponents.

This eagerness had peaked into my current alert state, but having granddad right by my side was both a comfort and a needed distraction.

"There it is," Sofia suddenly said, nodding toward a looming building coming up on our right, "Winbrey Hall."

"Winbrey Hall," Granddad echoed wistfully, giving my hand another squeeze, his crossword all but forgotten. The hall took up the entire corner of the block, its ivory stone facade tapering to elegant spires that pierced the morning sky.

"You're familiar with it?"

"I faced Branson Ford there once. It hosts quite a few tournaments each year."

Branson Ford. Granddad's old rival. I often wished I could've seen a match between the two, but both had retired from tournaments long before I ever became interested in the game.

Sofia let us off near the hall's front steps before heading round the corner to the car-park, Cogg's own car close behind.

Constance, Spring, Clive, and my mother were already waiting on the sidewalk, a steady crowd streaming past them into the hall.

"Good, we've all made it in one piece," Constance said, when she caught sight of us, "Let's wait for Sofia and Cogg and then we can head in."

The two weren't long in coming, having reserved spaces prior, and soon we were heading into the hall, ten altogether. A motley crew if there ever was one.

Cogg and Sofia carried the chair-bound Constance up the shallow steps, the latter joking at the awkward angle she was sat while Sofia's eyes constantly darted to rooftops as if on the lookout for snipers.

Next came Spring and my mother, with her tidy handbag and hair pinned beneath her hat. The two had warmed to each other and were chatting about the weather and this and that. I still marveled that she was here, instead of dad ("He wanted to come," she'd reassured me yesterday, "But you know how work can be."). Mum was even more of a homebody than I was and she'd always said she hated the bustle of big cities. I felt a bit nervous, actually, that she might become overwhelmed, but so far she appeared to be holding up fine.

Just behind the two women came Gemma, the chess knight, trailing sparkles and small, dark, sullen Bernard, muttering to Clive. Bernard was wearing his usual baggy turtle-neck, but Clive had dressed up for the occasion in a waist-coat and tie.

I still couldn't glance at him without feeling a touch of yesterday's dizziness. Not that I was glancing at him all that much. In fact, I had made a conscious effort to distance myself from Clive since yesterday afternoon, when granddad had arrived and immediately honed in on him. He hadn't said anything directly to me, but it was clear, from the manner he'd scrutinized Clive throughout the evening to the effort he'd made to ensure he was always sat or stood somewhere between the two of us, that he wasn't as baffled by "the youth of today" as he claimed to be.

As if to confirm my suspicions once and for all, one of my loose shoes snagged on the edge of a step. Clive instinctively caught my arm and steadied me.

"Careful, these stairs are..." His word died away when he realized granddad was peering over his spectacles at us with a certain calm intensity.

With quick apologies, we broke apart. Granddad stepped up to fill the space between us, pointing to the stone crest above the door depicting a rearing winged horse.

"The Winbrey crest. Quite a few chess masters in that family, you know."

"Such an intricate design," Clive muttered politely.

Granddad raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, "Studied heraldry, have you, lad?"

The sun on my face felt one thousand times hotter. I knew we were both in for a lecture after the tournament, a very long lecture with plenty of chess analogies.

Before Clive could respond, we cleared the last step and passed into the crowded foyer, which did little to alleviate my burning temples.

The heat and garble of too many people talking at once was immediate, reawakening the doormat butterflies in my stomach. On second thought, 'butterflies' was too soft a word. My stomach felt full of hornets.

Everywhere I looked, I glimpsed children my age, some with their families, others with teachers or coaches. Many of them wore uncomfortable formal attire just as I did, tugging at collars, straightening ties, and smoothing skirts as they talked, took in their surroundings, and generally looked ready to vomit. A number of individuals wearing slate gray vests clipped with name tags stood out from the rest. Tournament officials, I assumed. I watched one climb a ladder and straighten the banner strung across the ceiling that read _Blackburne_ _Junior Chess Tournament_ in elegant script.

Granddad rested a hand on my shoulder.

"I think you sign in over there, Amelia."

I followed his bony finger through the crowd, to a large half-circle desk in the middle of the room where officials sat with clipboards, servicing two lines that twisted back towards the entrance.

After a quick discussion, granddad opted to wait with me, while the others left to stake out seats in the grand hall.

The two of us had only just stepped to the back of the line when a familiar voice caught my attention:

"Amelia!"

I turned around, looking for its source.

"Yoo-hoo!"

A girl and boy emerged from the crowd, the one petite with glasses and swinging rook earrings and the other hoisting an enormous backpack on his round shoulders.

"Madge...Shelby!" I said, a bit surprised, "You're here."

"We're here," Madge replied, beaming, "And Mr. Grambler is here, too."

"Classmates of yours, I presume, Amelia?" granddad asked, offering the two a smile.

"Y-you're Abelard Ruth!" Shelby said, gazing up at granddad in awe, "I have your card."

"Oh?" Granddad smile shifted to a quizzical frown, "My...card?"

Madge rolled her eyes at Shelby.

" _Ugh_. He means _trading_ card."

Granddad and I glanced at each other, still uncertain.

"Trading card?" I repeated.

Madge nodded.

"Yep. You know, like collectible cards? He makes them himself. Even made one of _you_ , Amelia."

"Oh," I wasn't quite sure what to say to that.

Shelby blushed, heaving a guilty shrug.

" _Any_ way, we're not here for chitty chat," Madge crossed her arms, "We're here to give you the beans, Amelia."

"Erm, the beans?"

The line inched forward. Madge and Shelby kept alongside us.

"On the top competitors. The serious competition!" Shelby said.

My stomach twisted. It appeared the shadowy chess geniuses I had long imagined were finally about to take form.

"We know you can win this," Madge continued, "I mean your granddad is _the_ Abelard Ruth. You've been playing since you were six! You've got more than a sporting chance.

"More like a sporting _for sure,"_ Shelby said, "Anyway, have a look."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lamented card, holding it up for granddad and I to see. On the front was pasted a photo of a gangly boy with white-blond hair and pale freckles that stood out from his ashen complexion like scattered points on a grid. He wore a high-collared gray blazer and an unreadable expression.

"Miles Skip," Madge said, "Known by his friends as the 'Human Calculator'. He's participated in several minor tournaments, but this is his first big one."

"He's super smart," Shelby added, "Already taking advanced maths classes at some university!

"And he's very precise," Madge continued, "Analytical, logical, he's basically a textbook example of a teen genius."

"Huh," I said, ready to vomit, myself.

"He doesn't like taking risks, though," Shelby said, "And he chokes under pressure."

He tugged another card from his pocket, revealing a girl wearing a scuffed metallic jacket, her jagged hair shot with bubblegum pink.

"Chiyou Inoue," Madge gushed, "Oh, she's so cool! I wish my mum would let me do my hair like that."

"They call her the Chess Diva," Shelby said, tapping his trading card, "She competed in the Blackburne tournament last year, as well."

"She's got quite the following," Madge added, "Unpredictable and always has some trick up her sleeve."

"What's her weakness?" I wanted to know. I already had one of my plaits pinched between my forefinger and thumb, ready to give it a sharp tug.

"They say she's very erratic, tactic wise," Shelby answered, "Sometimes that works in her favor and sometimes not."

His expression grew more serious, as he pulled out a third card. "But the last one...he's the one you should really be worrying about."

"Branson Ford's protégé," Madge added quietly.

Granddad cocked his head.

"Branson's protégé? I had no idea."

"His name is Alexandre Belliqueux," Shelby said, holding up the last card. The small photograph was of a broad-shouldered boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with a warm, brown complexion that complimented his three-piece suit and silk tie. His dark curls fell loosely over his forehead as he gazed at the camera with dark-lashed eyes.

"This tournament is his debut," Madge lowered her voice, "But everyone's already pegging him as the winner."

"Seeing as his mentor his Branson, I can understand why," Granddad said, stroking his beard.

"But has anyone actually seen him play?" I asked, letting my plait slip from my fingers.

"I've just heard rumors," Madge said, "His parents own luxury hotels all over Europe, multi-millionaires, you know, and apparently they let him jet-set all over the globe, scheduling private practice sessions with grandmasters."

"Why would he care about a tournament like this?" I asked, "He sounds like the last person who would need a scholarship."

"It's not just about the scholarship, Amelia," Madge said. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, "Local tournaments like this are the first step to the national championship. You can't just buy your way into that, you have to _earn_ it."

"And from there, the Junior World Championship," Shelby whispered with solemn reverence.

We were nearly to the desk now. I was so hot and dizzy that for a second the room dissolved in sweat and blurred colors. I blinked hard.

"So, what are his weaknesses?" I asked, "He has to have at least one."

"We don't know," Shelby said miserably, "Like we said, it's all rumors."

The person in front of us stepped away from the desk.

"Next," the official droned.

I quickly found my name on the list and scrawled my signature next to it. The official handed me a name-tag and a ticket with _R-22_ printed on it.

"Proceed to the Empress Lounge, please," she said, "Next."

"Mr. Grambler's over here," Shelby said, as we headed away from the desk together. Near the back of the foyer, I caught sight of a familiar portly gentleman wiping his brow.

Although few of the teachers at Dreycott could be said to be very lively, Mr. Grambler was easily the most lethargic of the bunch, sometimes sneaking in a quick nap during chess club and frequently looking as though he had just been hastily slapped from a trance. Today, however, there was not a hint of sleepiness in his eyes, which were as jumpy as his fingers, fiddling with his forest green tie.

"Hello, Mr. Grambler," I said, as we approached.

"Oh, Amelia, you made it!" Mr. Grambler tucked away his handkerchief, "I was worried you might–well, never mind that now," he said, "And your grandfather made it, as well, I see. Very good. A pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Likewise."

As the two exchanged a handshake, Mr. Grambler snuck a peek at his wristwatch.

"Well, come along and I'll show you to the lounge, Amelia. We'd better hurry. Tournament starts in less than twenty minutes now."

Madge elbowed Shelby.

"Why do I have to be the one?" he whined.

With a sigh, Madge blew a springy strand of hair from her eyes.

"Fine."

She turned to me, looking somewhat sheepish, "We want to wish you luck, Amelia, here... and at Dreycott."

"At...you don't mean?"

Madge and Shelby nodded glumly.

"We're not coming back," Shelby said, "After what happened at the masquerade...my parents..."

"Mine, too. I mean, I'm sort of relieved about it? Except for chess club, of course," Madge's expression brightened, "But let's forget that for now. Good luck, Amelia! One last huzzah!"

Shelby had stuck his hand in his pocket and was now digging frantically,

"Before you go, I have to show you your trading card. I gave you 8 defense points, a special attack, plus 10–"

Before he could finish, Madge grabbed the handle of his backpack and dragged him off through the crowd, waving as she went.

"Well, then," Mr. Grambler chuckled, "Shall we?"

We followed him out of the foyer and down a plush, carpeted hallway. He stopped at the fourth door to our right and ushered us into a spacious room beyond, quiet as a library and arranged with sofas, round tables, and stiff-backed chairs. These were all occupied by fellow competitors, many chatting quietly, reading books, or else staring off into space, white and withdrawn. Quite a few stood consulting with their coaches, while others hovered near a water cooler and a larger table laden with coffee, tea, and baskets of healthy snacks: fruit, granola bars and other foods I knew my nerves would never allow me to sample. One boy in the corner dangled a yoyo from his fingers, while a girl on the opposite side of the room performed peculiar breathing exercises in front of a mirror in what I could only assume was some sort of pre-tournament ritual.

"This is where you'll wait between matches," Mr. Grambler explained, "There's a fifteen minute break between each round, thirty minutes for lunch, so you'll either be out there playing chess or in here waiting to play again,"

He took out his handkerchief and resumed mopping his brow, "I can offer you whatever help I can between rounds. _Ahh_ , it's been so long since I've done this. You'd probably make a far better coach than I, Mr. Ruth."

"Nonsense, my good man. I'm sure you're more than qualified," granddad replied. He glanced at the clock on the wall, "Now, then, I suppose it's time I found my seat..."

He turned to me. I knew what was coming next. My stomach, a hollow hive, lurched, allowing anxiety to swarm and sting in pulsing waves. My tongue certainly felt like it had been stung–dry and ready to crumble,while my palms melted away in puddles of perspiration. In between the two, my heart fluttered in my chest, as though desperate to escape.

Before either of us could say anything, however, the door behind us opened and two faces peered in, one on top of the other. The lower one was bespectacled, but the higher one looked more...equine

"Gemma!" I said, "What–"

"Madge told us where you were. We wanted to wish you luck before it started!" She opened the door wider, revealing Clive, Bernard, and my mother.

"Well," Mr. Grambler said, "You're not really supposed to be in here, but, ah, well, I suppose..."

He started as Gemma tackled me into a hug, squeezing my ribs until I thought they might pop.

"You'll do great! We'll be rooting for you in the crowd. Just look for the giant horse head."

"Thanks, Gemma," I wheezed.

She released me, glittering raining into my hair.

"Just try not to be nervous," she wrung her hands, "And don't throw up or have a panic attack or drop a chess piece and then trip over it. And don't pass out. Gosh, I think I might just pass out myself..."

"Just what Amelia needs," Bernard sighed. He stuck out a hand and I shook it.

"I'm not going to wish you luck, because I don't believe in wishes or luck. But you don't need either."

I had to smile at his grim, unwavering expression.

"Thank you, Bernard."

And then Clive stepped forward and all my nervous ailments seemed to intensify.

He fiddled with his tie, looking like he wanted to bolt for the door. I could relate. Any confidence from yesterday had utterly deserted us both.

Yesterday...

Granddad's words weren't the only ones that had renewed my determination. Last night, as I lay brushing patterns on my pillow, the sibilant rain had brought with it everything Clive had said to me that curious moment right before the downpour, like a whispered cue recalling a forgotten soliloquy. I had pondered this moment for a long time, half-awake, half-dreaming, puzzling it out, trying to remind myself that words could be hasty and misleading, fleeting and insincere. But as my sleep grew deeper, I had let them slip in anyway, past all my objections, my safeguards and self-imposed warnings, until they were warming my hollow chest.

"Amelia," Clive began, his voice cracking.

I mentally pinched myself. Focus.

He coughed and tried again, "I know you may not feel it, but I think you're ready for this."

"Thank you," I said, glancing down at my shoes. Was that really all I could say?

I forced my head up again, "And, er, thanks again, for all your help practicing. I'll have to find a way to return to the favor," I folded my arms, turning up my nose at him in an attempt to ease us both, "I don't like owing you."

"Of course," His chuckle quickly faded, "Listen...people like to play mind games. I'm sure it's doubly true for a competition like this. Some might try to intimidate you, if they can. Don't fall for any of it."

"I'll be careful," I reassured.

He held out a hand for me to shake. I couldn't tell whose palm was sweatier.

Mum stepped forward next. She straightened my ribbons, then glanced at my shoes.

"How is it I always manage to buy one size too big?"

"I suppose I should actually go with you when you pick them out next time," I replied, sheepishly. In truth, I hated shoe-shopping and avoided it whenever I could.

"And remind me to make you a hair appointment when we get back," Mum carefully fingered the end of one of my plaits, "Seeing some split ends here."

"I noticed too, mum."

There was an edge of annoyance in my tone, one I had never used towards her before. Or perhaps...perhaps it had always been there. Perhaps those old, old memories I'd finally allowed myself a glimpse at yesterday were acting as a sort of lens, making everything look a bit different. Sharper or more distorted?

Focus.

I finally offered mum a smile, small, but somehow heavy, "I'm–I'm glad you were able to come."

She fixed my collar, her fingers light and swift as hummingbirds.

"I never imagined you'd want to be in something like this, but I'm glad you decided to give it a try,"

Her own smile brought out the careworn lines in her face, "And someone has to keep granddad out of trouble."

"What was that?" Granddad said. Mum stepped back, allowing him to bend down and give me a hug, stiff, but warm.

"My lovely little Amelia," he said, pulling back so he could look at me with his bleary, old blue eyes, soft and slightly misted. He cupped a gentle hand to my face, brushing my cheek with his thumb. "Your first tournament. Your grandmother would be so proud."

He straightened, his hand dropping to rest on my shoulder. "Be sure to enjoy it, now. First tournaments only happen once."

"I'll try," I said.

Granddad glanced back at Clive who was talking to Gemma now, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"And don't let that _boy_ distract you."

"Granddad!" I quickly lowered my voice, "I–he's just my friend and–you–you don't like him, do you?"

Granddad scrunched his eyebrows, as if deep in contemplation.

"Hm. Well. Strike one: he seems fond of you. Strike two: he is in dire need of a haircut. Strike three: I haven't played chess with him. Never trust someone unless you see how they conduct themselves in a battle of wits. That is my solemn creed."

"If it makes any difference," I said, "I've played chess with him. He's halfway decent."

"'Halfway decent'? Heavens, if you're giving out compliments of that stature, I think I'm right to be worried, heh-hee!"

His smiled faded. "I'm sorry, Amelia. I don't mean to tease you...it's just...you've grown up so much these last few months."

"I don't feel very grown-up," I said in a quiet voice.

Granddad gazed at me steadily.

"It's not really something you feel, Amelia. It's actions that ultimately decide one's level of maturity. Don't be afraid to take risks, now. A good player is not foolhardy, but chess is never supposed to be comfortable. Put yourself out there, make mistakes. Then–"

His next words were lost to a sudden cough, followed by another. He turned away from me, hacking into the crook of his arm with a violence that made my own lungs ache. Mum put a hand on his heaving shoulder.

"I'm alright," he managed in a rusty voice, the bout finally subsiding, "Just need–a glass of water."

"Of course," Mr. Grambler hurried over to the water cooler just as a voice crackled to life over the intercom mounted to the wall.

"All arbiters please proceed to the grand hall."

"We should probably return to our seats, now," granddad said, already composing himself.

I felt the weight of everyone's eyes. Watching me, watching him.

"Yes, let's head out," Clive agreed. He cast one last concerned look in my direction, then headed for the door, Gemma and Bernard trailing uncertainly behind him.

Granddad turned back to me.

"I hope I didn't startle you, Amelia. I've been fighting it for a while, you know, but it's not...it's nothing you need to worry about."

His tone was half-hearted.

I took his hand.

"If–if you're not feeling well, we can go back to the manor. Maybe if you rested for a bit you'd feel better."

"Nonsense," granddad tapped my nose, "My fusty old man infirmities are _not_ going to ruin your special day."

I gave him one last hug, wishing a bit of my own health would somehow transfer.

"I have every confidence you can win this," he whispered, then straightened.

"Are you ready, Polly? Ah, thank you, sir."

Granddad took the paper cup of water offered to him by Mr. Grambler as mum linked arms with him.

With final wishes and waves, I watched them file from the room, my chest like lead.

Mr. Grambler cleared his throat. He was clutching his own cup of water as if it were a life-preserver.

"Nearly time now," he said, "Let's go over a few things quick, shall we?"

We sat down across from each other at a nearby table, well away from everyone else.

"First off, you should know the tournament is single-elimination."

"Which means?" I asked.

"Which means when you lose, that's it. You're out."

Mr. Grambler must have noticed the fresh anxiety marking my expression because his own softened.

"Now, I don't mean to frighten you. But this tournament is considered the first check-point to the junior national championship. Serious business. Dreycott hasn't entered in a long, long time...Professor Rosen is even here."

Mr. Grambler was mopping his brow again.

"Professor Rosen?" I repeated, surprised.

"Yes. Now listen. There will be seven rounds in all. For each match, you'll have sixty minutes for the first forty moves in the game. Twenty-five minutes after. Once your time runs out you automatically lose. It will be tempting to watch the clock. Don't. But don't completely ignore it, either."

I nodded, feeling more overwhelmed by the second.

The intercom crackled once more.

"All players please proceed to the grand hall."

We stood as the quiet atmosphere of the room was shattered by a steady stream of competitors heading for the door.

"Off you go, then," Mr. Grambler said, patting my shoulder, "I'll be in the audience and we'll talk again after the first round. Have your ticket?"

I held up my numbered ticket before being swept into the pressing throng, carried out into the hallway where we were organized into a double-file line by another official. She lead us around the corner and through a double set of doors, into the grand hall.

It was even more impressive then I had imagined, a thought accentuated by the vaulted ceiling arching high above us. Lofty windows provided shafts of morning light at intervals, illuminating the tiered seating on either side of the hall, alive with melded voices and shifting bodies. Below the seating was a walkway where viewers could freely move the length of the two tables that stood in the hall's center, lined with uniform chess sets and rectangular chess clocks, ancient and gleaming.

"Find the seat that matches your ticket, please," one of the officials announced as we made our way to the tables.

I found my seat, _R-22_ , and promptly sat down. A minute later, a girl with a lace collar and reddish hair in longer plaits than my own sat down across from me. We eyed each other warily. My first opponent.

As we waited for everyone to find their seats, I scanned the audience, looking for Gemma's horse head. I thought I might have finally spotted it bobbing near the upper-middle, when a tall man with a thick handlebar mustache and a microphone strode to a podium placed near the tables.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to personally welcome you to the 56th annual Blackburne Junior Chess Tournament. For those who don't know me, I am this year's head arbiter, Horatio Everett,"

Somehow the man stood even taller. He continued, "Before we begin, I'd like to announce we have as a special guest with us today the famed grandmaster, Branson Ford!"

A heavy-set man with a thick beard and beaming red face stood up from the front of the audience and waved with both hands under the shower of applause.

"Mr. Ford will be presenting the winner with the coveted Blackburne scholarship," Mr. Everett continued, "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Before we begin, let us briefly review the rules that will govern this tournament..."

As the head arbiter segued into many of the same topics Mr. Grambler had already explained, my eyes wandered to the chess-board in front of me.

This was it. After all my practicing and worrying and imagining, I was finally here. While I could acknowledge my talent, I knew my chances of winning remained slim. My chances of returning to Dreycott were slim. I hadn't let myself dwell on this in a long time, too busy focusing on the tournament itself, instead of its consequences. In fact, when Clive, Gemma, and Bernard and I had held that discussion our first night at Dove Manor, in order to make plans for next term, I had gone along as if it were for certain I was coming back.

Yet now that I was here, my original intentions were all I could think about.

My eyes ran up and down both tables. There were over a hundred players. How had I let myself rest easy for even a moment thinking I would be able to get back to Dreycott through some elusive scholarship?

 _Forget the tournament_ , the voice was quiet, but soothing, rational, _Clive wanted to pay your way, so why not take him up on his offer?_

It was the most inviting safety net. Squeak my way through the tournament, play it safe, and then let Clive handle the matter after I inevitably lost. I knew Constance would be more than obliging. She certainly had more than enough money to pay my tuition a thousand times over...

No.

My fists clenched. No. If I was going back to Dreycott I had to get there myself. If not through this tournament, then some other way. And I didn't want to squeak through it, either. I wanted to see what I could do. I wanted to show granddad I could live up to his words.

"...An arbiter has been assigned to each section. They will ensure that the laws of chess are properly adhered to over the course of each match. If you are found to have willfully violated any of these rules, you will be required to forfeit the tournament."

My attention shifted back to Mr. Everett who had all of us at the tables fixed in his gaze.

"If we are all in agreement, let us commence. Players, please stand and shake your opponent's hand."

I stood on wobbly legs and shook the red-haired girl's hand. Her name-tag read Jane.

 _How did you get here, Jane?_ I wondered. _How did the game ensnare you?_

Focus.

We took our seats once more as Mr. Everett continued.

"As is custom, White has the honor of making the first move. When I give the signal, black, you will set your opponent's timer."

"That's you," Jane whispered.

"What?" I whispered back, "Oh!"

I was Black. Focus. I pushed my chair forward so I could reach the timer and winced at the creak. Steadying myself with a deep breath, I stretched out my hand, hovering it over the silver button.

The pause that followed was more of a strain, tension pulled taut and tightly packed, like race-horses smothering the gate that held them back.

Mr. Everett cleared his throat.

"Let the tournament begin."

Along both tables, over a hundred timers were set at once. I blinked in a sudden blank panic, then my hand surged forward to strike the button.

 _Click!_

To begin to describe the next few hours with any amount of detail would be to boggle the mind to near madness–a madness oddly checkered and accompanied by the faint heartbeat of a clock that was continuously stopped and started again in a state of mechanical cardiac arrest. Time was king now–and the board and its denizens– the only reality that mattered. Granddad had once asked me if I thought chess was man's way of fancying himself a god. I couldn't answer at the time, but now, bound by the clock and the crowd and the chair and arbiter circling about and my own opponent's watchful eyes, I had to say I felt less divine and more slave.

And yet I made short work of the first four matches. Jane played a solid, but largely standard game and the three opponents that followed did not deviate from this pattern. Top players in their schools, perhaps, but I was beginning to realize that granddad had provided me with a level of training, intense as it was informal and seasoned by decades of experience, that other pupils simply had never been able to access.

 _Keep that in mind_ , I told myself as my wins began to stack up, _Don't get a big head. Granddad is the real reason you're making it this far._

It was hard to say if I enjoyed myself during these first rounds. I felt, instead, a calm alertness. I was tense–yes–terrified–a bit–but I also knew exactly what I was doing. Ever conscious of granddad's words of advice, I tried to keep one eye beyond immediate tactics, focusing more on long-term goals then I ever had before. Opening, middlegame, endgame... Not separate entities, but intricately bound, each influencing and shaping the others, creating the possibility of a coherent master-plan throughout.

This first portion of the tournament progressed as smoothly as the golden morning passed to yellow noon. To and from the lounge, I watched the standings unfold on the enormous chalkboard set up near the tables, which were constantly being rearranged as the number of competitors halved and halved again. Chess boards and clocks were removed and reset. Arbiters walked the length of the room and back like sentinels. Audience members circled the walkway. On and on, until, by the end of the fourth round, I found myself among the remaining eight players.

"It only gets stiffer from here on out," Mr. Grambler told me in the lounge as we waited for the quarterfinals to begin. "The wheat and the chaff have been separated. I never doubted you would make it this far, but now...well, now, you'll have to fight for it."

I took a sip of lukewarm water, my head throbbing with a dull headache seeded by the bright lights of the hall and my eyes bleary from distinguishing amongst different pieces for so long.

"Thank you," I said, too busy mentally prepping myself for the next match to waste any words.

"Er, how are you feeling?"

"Alright," I said. I attempted a smile, "Tired, but...if I keep taking it one game at a time, I think I'll be alright."

Truthfully, I had never before played so much chess in so little amount of time. My mind's response was simply to focus ahead on each succeeding match, lest it become overwhelmed by all the proceeding ones, leaving my body to ache with an exhaustion I knew I wouldn't fully feel until after everything was over.

"We'll, you've a longer break for lunch. They've brought out sandwiches, if you'd like one. Stretch your legs. Take a–"

Mr. Grambler cut himself off, the color fading from his cheeks. "Oh! Why, it's Professor Rosen.

I turned just in time to see the headmistress step through the door and head in our direction. She looked composed as always in her tailored pinstripe suit and heels, but no amount of professionalism could hope to hide the gray fatigue in her eyes. Her right hand was curled around a small, cylindrical package.

"P-Professor Rosen, so pleased you could make it," Mr. Grambler said, shaking the Professor's free hand.

Professor Rosen smiled, thin as a line.

"And a pleasure to be here. I wondered if I couldn't have a brief word with Amelia."

"O-of course, I'm sure it's no trouble."

I stood, smoothing my dress, as the Professor's solemn eyes settled on me.

"Amelia, you should feel very proud," she began, "No matter how it ends, you've already done Dreycott School a great honor by coming this far."

"Thank you," I repeated, my eyes desperate to drift.

"That said, I have every confidence you can succeed here."

"I'll try my best."

Such vague words. I always found it difficult to know what to say to the professor. She was so vague and unreadable herself, after all.

There was a pause. I noticed her nails digging into the package, then she slackened her grip and held it out to me.

I took it from her, weighing it in my hand. Judging from the shape my fingers traced beneath the brown paper, the object was a thin, solid cylinder with something faceted on one end. My breath snagged in my throat. Could it really be...?

"W-what's this?" I asked.

"I had the privilege of receiving a call from one Dr. Andrew Schrader the other day," Professor Rosen replied, "He had several questions for me about the school. Apparently, a group of my students visited him this week, very keen on Dreycott's past.

"Oh?" I said, my heart quickening.

"He also told me he'd found something related to what they'd been researching. Of course, I had an inkling who he was talking about and so I offered to deliver it myself, seeing as we'd all be at the tournament."

The Professor was studying me carefully.

"Did–did he say what it was? Or where he got it?" I asked, trying to keep my expression neutral.

"He did not," she replied, "Though he did tell me what you've been researching...the oculus sapphire?"

Now it was my turn to study her. Her expression mirrored my own, unreadable, but marked with sharp intensity.

"Do you know anything about it?" I said, "I mean it _is_ connected to Dreycott."

"Dr. Schrader also asked me about it," the Professor replied. Her jaw clenched, a movement so slight I almost missed it, "I'm honored that you and your friends have taken such an interest in Dreycott's history, Amelia." She paused, "But it's important to distinguish fact from fancy."

I held out the package to her.

"M-maybe you should keep this, if it relates to the school?"

I thought it only right to offer, but the professor merely shook her head.

"Don't forget. You're a patroller, Amelia. I'm entrusting it to your care. I'm sure you'll keep track of it better than I ever could."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. The Professor's expression reverted to her politely strained smile. Somehow, she always managed to put it on, no matter how troubled she appeared prior. "Anyway, I should return to my seat. I look forward to seeing you at Dreycott next year, Amelia, should you be able to return."

Her smile faded as she spoke, a peculiar contradiction.

"Yes, I look forward to coming back."

"Mr. Grambler."

The Professor nodded at the teacher, then left the room as quickly as she'd come.

As soon as she was gone, my eyes returned to the package.

Tempting, but I really didn't need the distraction right now. I could open it later that night, when the tournament was finally over and I was free to ponder the teeming garden of questions already springing up in my mind.

The package had to be the final rod, the last key needed to open the black hatch. But where had Dr. Schrader found it? And why had the Professor seemed both reluctant and insistent about handing it over?

These questions were still growing like restless weeds when I returned to the grand hall for the quarterfinals. They quickly shrank, however, as soon as the round began and I found myself against a far more formidable opponent than the last four: Miles Skip.

I was surprised to discover just how evenly matched we were. With only eight players left, divided between four matches, the audience's attention was more focused now. I could almost feel the weight of eyes watching Miles and I strike and counter and strike in a game that seemed destined to end in a draw.

All the while, the sun climbed higher, raising the temperature in the room with it.More so then the previous games, each increment of time framed by the nearly automatic striking of the clock became an age unto itself. Professor Rosen's package, fresh as the hour had been when I'd received it, became a blurry memory as my calescent mind clicked each move into sharp focus.

Afterwards, I could only describe the experience of that game as scribbling entry after entry in a diary written in hasty chess annotation and scattered snippets that reflected my strained senses.

. _..Nf3..._

The Human Calculator. Too fitting. One glance at Miles' eyes and one could almost see the data flitting by. No sweat on his brow. No capture or setback able to crease his smooth, white forehead, blank as a screen, or shatter his ceaseless concentration. He breathing was quiet and even, calm as snow. Twice as cold.

 _...Bd6..._

My own concentration fizzled and crackled like fire. One minute I was watching my strategy unfold, the next the still air had my head pounding with feverish intensity. I tried breaking Miles' strong defense through deflection, coaxing his knights and bishop away from their close guard of his king by capturing a pawn here, a rook there, but he always seemed to have a back-up plan. For every instance of exposure, he'd double his fortifications the next turn.

 _...Kd5..._

I had never seen anyone play with such mathematical precision. What did Miles see when he studied the board? An equation only he could solve? Still, he wasn't a robot. I needed to find the crack in his ivory armor, the crack that betrayed his humanness, flaws and all.

 _...Rxa4..._

What had Shelby said about him? That he floundered under pressure? Certainly Miles wasn't the swiftest of players. He considered each move with calculations so careful and deliberate that I could practically feel the restless shifting of the audience.

 _...Pc5..._

I time was dwindling now. I noticed Miles' eyes begin to shift increasingly to the clock. His moves became hastier. Perhaps deflection tactics were the best route after all.

 _...Nxd3..._

With only minutes to spare, I captured another of his pawns and found the crack I was looking for. Miles' forehead flushed scarlet. His attempt at capturing my own piece left his king vulnerable as a bird below an open windowsill. I wasted no time backing it into the corner with my own king and three knights. The cat struck. Forced checkmate. Miles' name was swiped from the chalkboard in a cloud of dust as ashen as his complexion.

The look he gave me when we shook hands was anything but machine, surprised and riddled with the shame of miscalculation and an uncertain respect.

It didn't strike me until after I had returned to the lounge that there were only four of us left.

Four.

I had to sit down. There had never been a more dizzying number.

Who were the other three? I hadn't even paid attention to the other results on the chalkboard.

I tried shutting off my mind, just for a second. It was already preparing for the penultimate round, raising questions, voicing worries, running through tactics that had succeeded and techniques that had failed, picturing the board, the arrangement of the pieces qxc3 artificial castling be5 five minutes remaining first move-advantage rb6 e8Q

Stop.

Head throbbing, I squeezed my eyes shut and I sipped at my water, sore and numb and alarmed all at once. Despite the fact it was long past lunch, I still had no desire to eat. And it wasn't only because my brain wouldn't shut up. Something had caught my attention, vague but slipping into gradual form. Something that started my stomach churning all over again.

Glances.

Glances that slipped into whispers that grew into huddles that burgeoned into full-on hushed conversations between competitors, coaches, even officials. All aimed at me.

Had I done something wrong? The question felt like a stab. Had I cheated or slipped up or made some embarrassing blunder I hadn't even noticed? What if I had actually lost that last match?

"Who is she?"

The voice, languid and smooth, snapped me out of my tense stupor.

I turned to find myself face-to-face with the young man who adorned the last trading card Shelby had shown me. His arms were loosely folded as he leant against a table, an apple dangling from one hand. Up close, I realized his features were borderline cherubic–his hair curling just so over his forehead and his ruddy cheeks soft and round as an infant's.

I could feel my own features tightening, my expression hardening into a mask of ice. I quickly looked about, hoping Mr. Grambler was nearby, but he had drifted over to speak with another coach.

"That's what everyone is asking, if you're curious," the boy said. He bit into his apple. "Where did she come from and how has no one heard of her before? A potential prodigy or just a fluke?"

"Alexandre Belliqueux," I replied, folding my own arms.

The boy straightened and cocked his head, radiating a certain fervent innocence. His cologne was sharp in my nostrils.

"And your Abelard's granddaughter," he smiled at my surprise, a flash of lucid white, "Yes, I know you, as well. I misjudged you, actually. I never expected you to make it this far."

"Yes, well...me neither," I wanted to end the conversation as fast as possible.

"So. I must ask," Alexandre tilted the apple in his hand, as if checking for bad spots, "Have you come to restore your grandfather's honor?"

"W-what?" I sputtered.

His gaze remained steady.

"Surely you know all about the Vitruvian Paradox game? The last match between your grandfather and my mentor?"

"I know it, but I don't see–"

"Then you'll know all about the scandal that soiled your grandfather's good name in the chess world. Why do you think he was never in another tournament after that?" Alexandre shrugged, "I can only assume you're here to redeem him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, so he's kept you in the dark, has he? And here I thought you two were close. Or that was my assumption, anyway, when I saw you clinging to his side."

The ice in my expression had slipped into my bloodstream. I'd been around Dreycott's bullies enough to realize what Alexandre was trying to do. He reminded me of Felix, in fact, the way he wielded words. Time to extract myself. No comeback, no retaliation, just turn on your heel and leave.

And I did, heading straight for Mr. Grambler, feeling Alexandre's eyes burn the back of my neck the whole way.

He was lying. He had to be lying. Obviously, he was lying, trying to rile me up, knock me out of focus. It was ridiculous even thinking about the idea of granddad being involved in some sort of scandal. What did that even mean? That he cheated, helped someone else cheat?

No!

I shut down the line of thought before it could unwind any further. To continue would be playing right into Alexandre's hands. I shuddered involuntarily, praying I wouldn't have to face him in the next round.

Thankfully, when we returned to the hall, I watched him sit down across from another boy with red-rimmed eyes and hunched shoulders. I had never felt sorrier for anyone in my life.

Chiyou Inoue, my next opponent, was the exact opposite. Watching her, refreshed and sparkling with energy, one would have assumed the tournament had not even begun. Finally time to face the Chess Diva.

"E'eryone's talkin' abou'cha, Amelia Ruth," she said, blinking glitter from her eyelashes.

I sighed.

"I know."

"Then don' luke sae dead," she leaned closer, "Jus' between you 'n me? You're the mysterious underdog who's taken this tournamen' by storm. Lu'sen up. Show a bi' 'o flare. The audience will eat i'up and beg for seconds."

She winked and was back at it–waving, blowing kisses, and striking poses for the sudden bloom of camera bulbs.

I didn't reply, feeling far more anxious than dead. Chiyou was supposed to be extremely talented and extremely erratic. Not a good combination.

Mr. Everett returned to declare the semifinal round. The four of us stood and shook hands amidst the hush that swept over the hall.

Once we were reseated, Chiyou set my timer and my mind snapped back into the game like a magnet to a nail.

My opponent's skill was immediately apparent. Not only did she go on the offensive right from the start, but her ability to multi-task kept throwing me off. One minute she would be waving at the audience, the next her eyes would be back on the board, flickering for only a moment, before striking with a lightning fast hand.

And she was fast. I found myself rushing to keep up with her, making one or two cringe-worthy blunders in the process, but managing to hang on. By the middle of the game, I still couldn't pin down her strategy. Her pieces were all over the place and the sprawl was leaving me overwhelmed.

Was there any logic to what she was doing? There must have been because I was quickly loosing ground. Sliding my knight in its familiar L-shape, I slapped my timer.

Chiyou moved her bishop with barely a breath's pause, slapping her own timer just as quick.

My head throbbed as I studied the board. Where was she going? Where was I going? I was all turned around. What was I missing? Think,think, _think_.

I finally decided to move in toward her queen from the right flank. Chiyou grinned as if this was exactly what she had wanted.

Our next few moves played out like a downward cascade and before I realized what was happening, she had me up against the wall.

"Checkmae'."

For five consecutive matches I had earned the right to claim that fatal word, but now, hearing it in the mouth of another, I felt like an executioner felled by my own axe.

Applause droned in my ears, but the board was louder, swallowing all my senses–black and white and black and white and black and– I slumped back in my chair, heat prickling my face even as cold shock washed over my limbs, eyes fixated on the silent, monochrome figures, their wordless arrangements binding me, body and mind.

The game rushed through my head, a spurt of ticker tape unfurling backwards, each blunder leaping out like an ink splotch. If only I had moved my knight here, captured that pawn instead of this one, charged forward instead of holding back. If only, if only. All the alternative paths I could have taken spread through my mind, roads and byways twisting and stretching, and for brief moment I saw the game, the solution to defeating Chiyou, clear as a map.

Then it was all a muddle, just squares and jutting shapes that I could only blink at in disbelief as the same two words pounded over and over in my head, numbing me from head to toe.

You lost. You lost. You lost. Lost. Lost. Lost.

"You alrigh' there?"

I flinched, then realized Chiyou was holding out a hand. I stood shakily, my eyes flitting about as I shook her hand. Alexandre and his opponent had finished their game, as well. The red-eyed boy looked ready to cry, his features pinched one minute, then sagging the next like an old balloon. Alexandre was all teeth.

"Gude game," Chiyou continued, brushing past my silence, "I wasn' expectin' much, hones', but you've go' some righ' fiendish brains under those tidy pig-tails, 'aven'cha? Could've gone either way," She rolled her eyes, "Bu' i' 'ad to gae my way. Now I 'ave to face his Lordship, Sir Cupid Curls, _och_."

"Good luck," muttered some part of me that remembered to be polite.

I watched her exit the hall, surrounded by a crush of fans, before handing over my ticket to an arbiter and stepping into the audience. Everyone was up and about, stretching and chatting before the final match. No one paid me a wit of attention, now.

I wasn't sure where I was going, only that I wanted to leave the hall and find someplace quiet and cool where I could process everything, where I could escape before the years slipped away from me and I was six again, back to when I didn't know how to seal myself behind that layer of ice. I already felt my numbness peeling away, exposing a raw mangle of thoughts accompanied by a pounding in my skull and a growing gouge in my chest.

 _Idiot, you really thought you could do it? Of course this would happen. Why are you surprised? Now you'll never return to Dreycott. Never return to London. Never see Clive, and Gemma, and Bernard again. So close. So close. You could've done it. Should've pushed yourself a little harder. Could've returned to Dreycott. Could've returned to London. Could've shown grandad what you're capable of. Idiot. Lost your best chance. Now you'll have to beg, but you can't. Too proud for that, right? Too proud to beg, too proud to lose, and now all you'll do is cry about it, just like you did yesterday._

I tried stoppering this paralyzing rush, only to feel the tell-tale prickle of tears in my eyes, borne of that some old childish frustration that I never could seem to rid myself of. My vision blurred as my mind continued hurtling right along, casting aside all traces of logic, all the careful, measured thinking that had kept me sane during the tournament. I squeezed my eyes shut.

 _Get control of yourself_.

The gouge in my chest flared and my fists tightened as I fought against the continuous push and pull of hasty admonishments tinged with self-pity, accompanied by round after round of tiresome, demanding questions.

 _Why are you here? Why do you ever come?_

"Amelia."

Before I had barely registered the voice, granddad was striding towards me, enveloping me in his arms, holding me tight, smoothing my hair, until finally the gouge faded, my shoulders dropped, and the tears dried before they could ever slip free.

"You were marvelous," he murmured, "I've never seen you play better."

I pulled back from him, throat tightening, for once not knowing what to say to him. We studied each other a long moment.

"How do you feel?" he asked finally.

I didn't have to bother faking a smile with him.

"I don't know. Everything. Too much."

Before he could respond, the others were surrounding us on all sides, buzzing with the thrill and energy of the competition, even as they offered me their commisertations and congratulations . I let myself smile, then, if only to keep them from prying too deep. Thankfully, exhaustion was already dulling the tumult of emotions still roiling inside of me, compounding them into a despondant ache, faint, but deep-seated. I knew I was far from being over the match, far from fully grasping the long-term consequences of my loss, of ever accepting them, but for now I tried to keep myself numb and placid.

"You were so close!" Gemma sighed, adjusting her horse hat. One of the googly eyes had fallen off leaving a gaping, gluey crust.

"Don't make her feel worse, Mudget," Bernard said, "Really, you should have won that last one. I had no idea what your opponent was playing, but it certainly wasn't chess."

"She won," Clive countered, "And her unorthodox strategy made for an engaging game. Still, I think I prefer Amelia's more traditional style," he turned to me, eyes bright, but tinged with a softer sympathy, "You were brilliant."

"Yes, very elegant, Amelia," Constance added, then cocked an eyebrow at granddad, "Would you take all the credit for that, Mr. Ruth?"

"Certainly not, my dear lady," granddad chuckled, "It was Minerva who taught me how to play with finesse. Minerva–and a pesky little school-girl with a most contrary temperament."

Constance shook with laughter, but before I could catch her reply, Spring and Cogg stepped forward to offer their own congratulations, followed by mum, who smiled and picked a string off my sleeve.

There was a unanimous decision to stay and watch the final match, before heading out to eat (Constance knew of an excellent restaurant nearby she was anxious for us all to sample. Unfortunately, though my stomach was beginning to feel sour for want of food, but I still wasn't sure if I could manage a single bite no matter how delicious the fare).

"I think Alexandre's going to win," Gemma said, as we settled into our seats.

It felt strange to be just another obscure member of the audience. A relief, certainly, but also disorienting. I felt as though I had been thrown from the driver's seat and dumped in the back.

"Gee, I wonder why?" Bernard grumbled, rolling his eyes at Gemma, who had taken to studying some sort of card.

"Hang on...did you get that from Shelby?" I asked, surprise temporarily lifting my pensive gloom.

Gemma held it up and, with a sinking feeling, I recognized it as Alexandre's trading card.

"Paid a fiver for it," Gemma gushed, "I'm gonna get Alexandre to sign it. I mean, _holy bishop,_ Amelia, look at this face. It's kind of a shame you didn't get to _face_ him yourself, huh?"

She clutched the card to her chest in rather a possessive manner.

I could tell Bernard was ready to react in typical outraged fashion, when Clive, straining to see something across the room, held up his hand.

"Looks like they've hit a snag."

I followed his eyes over to where several arbiters, Mr. Everett, and a tall man I recognized as Chiyou's coach were gathered in a huddle, talking quietly.

"Wonder what's up?" I murmured.

The answer wasn't long in coming. We watched the huddle break apart as Mr. Everett strode to center of the room to address the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize, but we've had a change in plans."

Murmurs rolled through the crowd.

"Several, ah, concerns have arisen regarding Miss Inoue's performance in the previous match. An investigation is currently underway. In the meantime, I have just been informed that Miss Inoue has voluntarily forfeited the tournament, meaning her opponent qualifies to enter the final round."

A cold dread began creeping its way up my stomach.

"Forfeited...but...?"

"Would Miss Ruth step forward, please?"

His words lingering in the air, I glanced around at everyone, hesitant to comply and wanting some sort of affirmation, but their confused expressions mirrored my own.

"Come on, then," granddad finally said, rising from his chair, "Let's see what this is all about.

I followed him stiffly through the crowd and over to Mr. Everett.

"Ah, here she is. The final match will begin in fifteen minutes. To the lounge, please, your teacher is waiting for you."

"But why–"

Mr. Everett was already hurrying across the room, delivering quick, quiet orders to the arbiters rearranging the table.

"Let's go back to the lounge, Amelia," granddad said, "Perhaps Mr. Grambler can fill us in."

The lounge had cleared out quite a bit since the last time I had been in, most moving out to the audience in order to watch the final match. We found Mr. Grambler refilling his cup at the water cooler.

"What's going on?" I asked him in a low voice.

"I'm not entirely sure," he replied, tilting his cup back and forth ever so slightly so that the water sloshed the rim, "It appears that someone tampered with the chess clock used in your previous match in such a way that they're pinning the whole affair on Miss Inoue."

My eyes narrowed.

"Tampered with..."

I trailed off. Something was wrong. Chiyou seemed like the last person who would cheat. Granted, I had only known her for one match, but she came across a very open person. Not to mention talented. She was so quick on the board, time was the absolute least of her worries.

"It's all most irregular, I know. I almost asked the young lady about it, but then that Belliqueux boy cut in. "

"Alexandre!?"

Mr. Grambler's hand jerked, splashing water across his tie.

"Shh! Here he comes now."

I looked over to find Alexandre and Mr. Ford approaching our circle.

"Well, by Jove!" the latter cried. He loomed over the three of us like a stunted giant, "Is that really you, Lardie?"

Before granddad could respond, the man clapped a platter-sized hand on his shoulder, nearly knocking him over.

"Ha, ha! But it is you beneath all those wrinkles! It's no wonder, I suppose. It has been years!"

"Far too long, Branson," Granddad said, his hand now being mercilessly pumped by Mr. Ford's own, "I trust you're well?"

Mr. Ford, however, had already turned his attention to me. I had never seen a person with such a large, intense face, scalding red like the surface of Mars and yet full of eager, tireless mirth. If I had been any younger, I might have hid behind my granddad's trousers.

"Aha! And this must be your granddaughter! Chip off the old block, eh?"

His handshake felt like a bear trap. "And this is my protégé and godson, Alexandre. His father and I go way back, you know."

Alexandre, who had been studying the three of us carefully, looked up at Mr. Ford with a patient smile one might use to mollify a dithering elderly relative.

"Yes, Mr. Ford is like a dear old uncle to me," he said, "He's taught me everything he knows. But never mind that, now. It's a pleasure to meet you, Amelia."

"We've already met," I snapped, unable to conceal the ice in my tone.

"Now, Amelia," granddad said, in that soft, chiding voice I knew too well, "Camaraderie between opponents is important."

"Oh, I couldn't agree more, Mr. Ruth," Alexandre replied, "And let me just say what an honor it is to finally meet such an esteemed master of the game."

Every muscle in my body had gone rigid as bark. His tone was gracious, but the taunting curl of his smile tainted his words with poison.

Mr. Ford chuckled.

"It seems our rivalry is destined to continue into the next generation, eh, Lardie? Pity about that Inoue girl..."

"Why would she cheat?" I asked, staring daggers at Alexandre.

"Baffling," he replied, shaking his head, "Perhaps she thought you too formidable an opponent?"

Before I could shoot a reply, the intercom interrupted us.

"Opponents to the tournament hall, opponents please make your way to the tournament hall."

"Ha, ha!" Mr. Ford cracked his hairy knuckles, "And so it begins. This-a-way, my boy."

Alexandre twisted on polished heels after his mentor, but not before giving me one last angelic smirk.

"Are you ready, Amelia?" Mr. Grambler asked.

"Not really, no."

"Why, your practically shaking," granddad said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"Just nerves."

Alexandre filled my head, his taunting smile, what he had said about granddad and what he might have said to Chiyou. He had said something to her or done..something. He was mixed up in it all somehow. I was sure of it.

"Amelia," granddad's grip on my shoulder tightened slightly, as if he were trying to inject me with a shot of courage, "Deep breaths. And remember what I told you. Show him how a Ruth plays chess."

I could only nod in return. Everything was happening so fast, I was going numb again. By the time we returned to the hall, only a single round table remained, arranged with one chess set and one timer. Alexandre was already seated, fingers steepled.

Granddad gave my hand one last quick squeeze. Then I was alone, walking to the table under the shroud of silence that blanketed the hall.

Alexandre stood as Mr. Everett introduced the match. He would be the final arbiter.

"Opponents, shake hands."

Unlike his dear old "uncle", Alexandre's hands were cool and soft, the kind of hands one might see in an oil painting, flawless, starkly flushed against a dark backdrop until they practically glowed.

 _Just another match_ , I repeated to myself, _just focus on the board._

We sat and the signal was given. Another deep breathe, then I reached forward and set Alexandre's timer.

 _Tick, tick, tick, tick, ti_

For the first half of the game we remained locked in a dead heat, neither of us making much headway. When I wasn't studying the board I saw reflected in Alexandre's features my own intense concentration, brow creased, mouth a hard grim line, shoulders rigid.

He was an excellent player and I was amazed by his foresight–setting up traps that didn't come into play until much later, making seemingly insignificant moves that later proved doubly beneficial. The hall was so still one would have heard a pawn drop onto a pillow.

And then, slowly but surely, Alexandre began to gain the upper hand. It started with him taking out my bishop, then he began slowly, but steadily closing in on my king from all sides. By the time we had passed the forty move mark, his tight frown had loosened to a smile.

And that's when he started talking.

"Your granddad," he breathed, in a voice so soft that Mr. Everett, who was standing off to the side, could not hear, "He's ill, is he not?"

The words jarred me out of the inner debate I'd been having over whether to move my pawn or rook.

"W-what?" I said automatically, before the meaning of the words struck me. With a sudden horror, I returned to concentrating on the board, neck prickling. Alexandre was silent. A few moves later, however, he started up again.

"You are his legacy," he remarked, again so quietly and nonchalantly as to draw no attention to himself but my own, "If you win, perhaps you can erase the shame of that old match."

"Shut up," I hissed, sick and disoriented.

Alexandre slid his knight and took out a pawn.

"If you lose," he continued, "The shame remains and–who knows–perhaps it will only increase. And not only that. To have his granddaughter make it so far, only to choke up at the last second. Think of what it could do to his fragile health."

My head was pounding. I knew exactly what Alexandre was playing at and it was working. My concentration was utterly shattered now, my plans for the next few moves little more than fragments.

"Do you want to know what really happened at that match?"

For a second, I thought he would continue and felt an insatiable, morbid curiosity well up in me at the prospect. I quickly squelched it. No. Just lies. Just empty words. Don't listen. Words are just syllables, just bits of sound, no meaning. Ignore them. They can't hurt you.

My eyes darted to the clock.

Fifteen minutes left.

What to do...what to do...

I returned my attention to the board. Alexandre had me hemmed in on every side. Only my queen could move with any amount of freedom and that would surely be suicide.

 _Tick, tick, tick, tick, ti_

Stop it. Don't focus on the clock. Concentrate. Concentrate.

I couldn't help it. I glanced at the clock again only to be hit by a woozy rush of panic.

Twelve minutes.

Alexandre was smiling again. I closed my eyes and shut him out, trying to picture granddad. His sharp, watchful gaze, his gentle voice, his laughter. His words of advice drifted in with these sensations, soothing as they were terrifying.

 _"Don't be afraid to make risks. A good player is not foolhardy, but chess is never supposed to be comfortable. Put yourself out there, make mistakes."_

A queen sacrifice.

Out of the panic, an answer emerged, one both clear and hard as diamond. It was a play that granddad had taught me a long time ago. Bold. Too bold for me, tricky to manage. But it somehow quieted my nerves.

I reopened my eyes and examined the board with a new sense of urgent detachment.

Yes...yes it could work.

Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I slid my queen to h7, right next to Alexandre's king. He responded just as I'd hoped he would, bumping his king over to f8.

I bit my lip. This was it. Time was threadbare, now. No more room for hesitation. No going back. Straight into the heart of enemy territory.

I moved my queen to h8, right where Alexandre's king had stood just moments ago.

A wicked grin split Alexandre's face for a mere second and then he pounced, capturing my queen with his knight.

I allowed myself the smallest of smiles. He'd fallen for it.

With my remaining rook, I captured his knight on h8, perfectly poised to take out his king. No escape.

"Checkmate."

Silence and in that silence I saw Alexandre's triumph melt into a terrible burning fury as he realized what I'd just done. Realized the enormous blunder he had just made under the pretense of easy victory.

He opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was drowned in the waves of applause that surged over the hall.

 _Help_ , was the only thought, barely conscious, _help, it's all for me_.

What happened next was a blur that I've never quite been able to sort out. Alexandre and I stood and shook hands as Mr. Everett called the game and the tournament to a close. The fury in Alexandre's eyes had already dimmed to a restrained obsidian.

Mr. Ford presented me with a burnished trophy and the certificate for my scholarship before turning me over to the crowd where hand after tireless hand was waiting to be shaken, fellow competitors, arbiters, coaches, spectators, a reporter, even a university scout.

"Promising future ahead of her..." I heard them say.

"Never even heard of her..."

"Incredible comeback..."

None of these words registered. I felt dizzy and limp. A ghost lost at my own funeral.

And then through the weave of bodies and limbs and camera flashes, I caught sight of granddad. I ran to him and threw my arms about him and never wanted to let go.

Clive and Gemma and my mum and Bernard and Spring and Cogg and Madge and Constance and Shelby and Mr. Grambler all surrounded me as we walked out into the foyer, shaking my hand and patting my back and talking all at once. I stayed close to granddad and felt the security of his arm around me lest I be swept away.

"Amelia Ruth!"

I caught a glimpse of an upstretched hand waving in the midst of the crowd, accompanied by a flash of metallic and pink. If anyone else had shouted my name I would have ignored them, but there were still questions that needed answers/

Excusing myself, I slipped away from the group and found Chiyou, her leather jacket draped over one shoulder.

"Amelia Ruth, there ya're. I wanted to congratulatcha."

As the crowd swept us along outside into the rose-flushed evening, I studied her expression carefully. She seemed the same vibrant girl I faced in the grand hall.

"It should have been you," I said, "I know you didn't tamper with that clock."

Her smile faded.

"'ow are ya sae sure?"

"You're a quick-thinker. You wouldn't risk cheating just to give yourself something you didn't need."

Chiyou sighed.

"I see why ya won, now. And for wha' it's worth, you're righ'. I didnae cheat. They're still lookin' into it, bu' hope'fly they'll come to the same conclusion."

"So...what do you think that was all about?"

She glanced away.

"Listen, Amelia Ruth...this is your first tournament. You should jus' enjoy it."

"What are you talking about?"

She hesitated, then continued, fingering one of her jacket's zippers.

"You'd think chess of all things would be an 'onorable sport," she shook her head, "No' always the case. Now, mos' people involved will be decen' enough, bu' some...learn to recognize 'em and don't let 'em latch their claws into ya. There's money tied up in tournaments, and fame, and, even power, if ya can believe i'. Ya can' jus' be a good player, you have to always be buildin' up and protectin' your image, ya know? I mean, look wha' it's done to me."

Chiyou shrugged and something like regret clouded her countenance. "I'd be lyin' if I said I didnae enjoy the attention. But sometimes I think, f'only chess could be chess, eh?"

"Right..."

"Anyway, don' let i' knockya down. I never 'ave," she nudged me, "I'm sure we'll face each other again, sometime. We'll show 'em how it's done."

I offered her a faint smile.

"Looking forward to it."

As I watched Chiyou catch up with a group of fellow chess-players, pondering the implications of her words, I heard a gasp from behind me.

I turned around. Gemma had just cleared the steps and latched onto Bernard's arm.

"Oh my pawn. There he is. He's coming right toward me."

"Agh, Mudget!"

Bernard shrugged her off just as Alexandre emerged from Winbrey Hall and headed down the stairs.

"Er, hello!" Gemma said, but his eyes passed over hers and locked directly on mine.

I walked over to stand with my friends.

"I must run," Alexandre said, "But I wanted to congratulate you one last time."

"Thank you," I managed.

"This was only a warm-up, you know. I've quite the schedule ahead of me– tournaments all over the country, a tour of sorts to introduce myself to the chess community."

Hungry anticipation quivered in his eyes, "I'm hoping to qualify for the world championship by the end of the year, so I'm sure we'll cross paths again in future. "

He smiled cherubically and I felt Clive stiffen beside me.

"Yes, I'm sure we will."

Prickling with dread, I made a quiet vow to myself. I would find out who Alexandre really was and what sort of games he played besides chess. I would learn all I could about the Vitruvian Paradox Game. Pare his claws so they'd never touch granddad or Chiyou or anyone else ever again. Someday. And the next time we faced each other over the chessboard, I would be ready.

With a final finger-curled wave, Alexandre turned.

"Wait!" Gemma called, rushing forward, her hat nearly flying off her head, "Can–can I get your autograph?"

Alexandre glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raising disdainfully as he looked her up and down.

"And where shall I sign it, that ridiculous hat of yours or maybe scrawled across your glasses since it's obvious you're already blind to social graces of any sort."

Gemma's smile vanished like spilt water in the heat of summer.

"O-oh, I didn't–"

I could tell Clive was ready to step forward and say something, but Bernard shoved past him.

"Excuse me."

He stood squarely next to Gemma, glaring up at Alexandre with an intensity that belayed the fact he was almost two heads shorter.

"Such a gracious loser," he snapped, "Didn't get your way, so you have to take it out on the one girl in the building who still thinks you're a semi-decent person and probably the only one's who asked for your autograph, all the while you have the audacity to mention _social graces_ when you just blundered through insults so outrageously unwarranted that even a five-year-old would recognize them as childish to the extreme. Well, damn your social graces and how about an ounce of self-control, instead?"

"I–Just who do you think–"

People on the steps and sidewalk were stopping to stare.

Seething, Alexandre pivoted on his heel and disappeared into the long, black limousine that had only just pulled up.

Bernard shook his head as he watched it slink off.

"People like him make me–"

He realized Gemma was about to enfold him in one of her signature hugs and quickly back-pedaled out of reach.

"Mudget! What have we talked about?"

Gemma rolled her eyes.

"May I please hug you for standing up to that bilious hob-goblin like that?"

"No."

"Just a side-hug?"

"No."

"Kiss on the cheek?"

"No."

"Hair tousle?"

"No."

"Hand-shake?"

Bernard appeared to waver.

"Pat on the shoulder?"

He threw up his hands.

"Fine. I grant you permission to leave a single pat on my shoulder in thanks."

"Well, then. Thank you," Gemma reached out her hand and touched his shoulder, "Pat. Pat."

"I said _one_ pat!"

"You deserved two!"

Clive and I looked at one another, both biting our lips, until we suddenly burst out laughing.

"Well! I am quite famished."

Cogg and Sofia had just set Constance and her chair on the ground, while mum and Spring trailed behind on the steps. "What's say we head out to supper, now?"'

My laughter quickly dissipated.

"Where's granddad?" I asked.

Mum blinked at me.

"Oh, I thought he was with you, dear?"

"I'm sure he just got caught up talking to Mr. Grambler or something," I said, twisting about, scanning the faces as they exited the building, "I'll go look for him."

Before anyone could respond, I hurried up the steps and slipped back inside.

The foyer had cleared out significantly. A few sparse groups remained chatting alongside arbiters taking down banners. But no sign of granddad...

I ducked back into the hallway, empty now, glancing at each door as I passed. Was he still in the grand hall? Or maybe...

I peaked into the lounge and there he was, bent over the water cooler.

"Granddad, there you are!"

He turned, face ashen, and I stopped.

"Are-are you alright?"

"Fine, Amelia, fine. I just– a bit turned around. Needed a drink," his voice sounded faint, "I hope I didn't worry you?"

"Maybe we should sit down for a moment?"

"No, no. The others are waiting and we have a whole evening of celebration ahead of us."

I wanted to object, but he was attempting a pale smile now, so I said nothing as we left the lounge together.

Outside, the rose-brushed clouds were giving way to the sapphires and ceruleans of twilight. Granddad gazed up at the sky a moment, spectacles catching streetlight, then his serene expression crumpled. He touched a hand to his forehead.

"Maybe we ought to sit down, after all..." he murmured. He began to sway.

"Granddad!"

I caught his arm right as his knees buckled, his paper cup slipping from his hand.

"Amelia...don't worry..."

"L-let's sit down."

My heart thundered in my chest. He was leaning against me heavily, but I managed to awkwardly ease him onto the first step. I squeezed his hand."You'll feel better in a moment."

"Yes," he wheezed. The feeble word acted as a trigger. He doubled over as an eruption of dry coughs, even stronger than before, convulsed his frame.

"Granddad!"

I put an arm around his spasm-wracked shoulders, my fingers digging into the taut fabric of his sweater.

"It's...I'm...alright..." he managed breathlessly, pressing his free hand to his chest. His words snared another violent bout, each cough snarling and tangling with ragged gasps that made it sound as though every wisp of air was being dragged with chains from his body.

Around us swirled the clack of footsteps, urgent voices, hands reaching and torsos bending over as a crowd gathered, another hand steadying granddad from the other side, mum at my shoulder, snatches of my name, granddad's name. I ignored everything, trying to keep my hand steady on his back as though my touch had the power to soothe his struggling lungs.

"Granddad! Granddad, can you–Granddad, please–" My tongue was useless, his name slipping out over and over like some broken incantation.

"Amelia–I–"

"Take deep breaths–can–can you try? Should we–what should I do?"

My arm wrapped tighter around him, clinging to him, willing the coughing to stop.

It didn't do so at once, sputtering and ebbing into quieter rasps until he drew in a single, sharp breath and crumpled forward. I caught him just before he lurched off the step, elbow digging into my knee, head lulling against my chest, spectacles gone, breathing shallow, chest heaving.

My grip tightened on his hand, spurred by the frantic, nearly unconscious idea of squeezing air back into his lungs through sheer pressure.

"Grandda–can you hear me!?"

His shirt collar was flecked with red. The voices were louder now, mingled with siren wails.

"Gra–"

Gloved hands clamped on my shoulders. Another pair of arms gripped and steadied granddad from behind. A moment of struggle, my head tossing back and forth, catching fragments of two figures with bone white sleeves, tugging, pulling, issuing quick, cool commands, until finally, smooth as slitting an envelope, we were torn apart from each other. As my hand slipped from granddad's, a mindless, binding terror shuddered through my body, concentrating in my chest, a scream that had to be loosed.

"No!" The voice was so shrill it barely registered as my own, "No! Leave him alone! Let go!"

Two more ghostly figures, carrying a stretcher between them, advanced up the steps, blocking my view as I was guided past them.

"No!"

I wrenched myself away from whoever was restraining me, scrambling back up the steps, ready to fight my way through the hazy cloud of figures surrounding granddad.

"I need to be with him!"

One of the figures, a paramedic I realized, turned about, allowing me a glimpse of granddad's limp figure being loaded into the stretcher, before he held up his hands, blocking my view completely.

"Please stay back, miss."

"Granddad!"

I surged forward, but before I could push my way through Clive stepped in front of me, receiving a wild elbow jab in the chest for his trouble. He winced, but held his ground, holding me back as I struggled and sobbed and spat words at him that left my throat burning and raw.

"Amelia!"

"No! Let go! Let go of me!"

I thrashed and pounded his back, trying to batter him aside.

Clive grabbed my shoulders.

"Amelia, listen!"

His sharp tone acted as a stinging slap to my frenzied mind. I stopped fighting, even as I continued to shake and heave, tears rolling down my cheeks, hot as blood. Locking eyes with him, I caught wet fragments of fear and anger and concern.

"I know you want to help, but you need to listen to them. They're trying to get your granddad to hospital as fast as they can."

"I'm–sorry," I choked between gasps. With each breath, whatever primal fighting instinct had been driving me drained from my body, until I felt ready to collapse.

"Are you alright?" Clive's voice was soft and tremulous now.

Without thinking, I pulled him into a hug. Brief, but long enough for him to stiffen, then gingerly fold his own arms around me. For a moment, we felt the weight of the other's weariness, the long nights that had passed and the long nights to come.

"I'm okay," I finally managed.

We slipped apart. I followed him down the steps, over to where the others were standing in a huddle. Spring had her arms around Bernard and Gemma, whose eyes were wide and wet under the streetlights. Constance reached up to do the same for me and Clive, trembling now beside me.

"Clive?" My voice was hoarse and painful in my ears.

His eyes flashed frantically for a second, then refocused on me. He took a deep breath as if to steel himself and gave a slight nod, mouth a grim line.

 _The sirens_ , I realized, _and yet he's not only kept his composure, but helped you regain yours_. Somehow, the thought served to calm me further. I let out a long, shuddering sniff.

"I––my elbow–and your back–and I'm sorry," I blurted, "Did I hurt you?"

"Don't worry about it," he muttered.

The clump of paramedics broke apart as they carried grandad down the steps. His face shone white as the stretcher that bore him, causing the panic to roar in my skull once more.

I fought it back this time. Drew in my own deep breath.

The slight weight of another hand alighted upon my shoulder. I turned to find mum, gazing back at me with eyes that mirrored my own. Wide, dark, fragile eyes.

I wanted to hate those eyes. How I'd seen the panic flare in them only to dim, taking all warmth with them. How they reminded me I was just like her, always caught between solid ice and the fear of shattering.

"Amelia."

The tears were already drying, crusting my eyelashes like glue.

"Mum..."

"Amelia, are you ready to go?"

The question was reflected in her eyes, but it was not the only one. There was another, more pressing.

 _I don't want to be the brave one,_ I wanted to answer those eyes. _You're supposed to be the brave one. Please._

The back doors of the ambulance slammed shut and then the vehicle roared away, trailing exhaust and siren peals.

I watched its flashing lights until it turned a corner.

"Ready," I murmured.

I started down the sidewalk, past mum and Clive, Gemma and Bernard, Spring and Cogg, Constance and Sofia, a dark procession that followed behind me, out from the lights of Winbrey Hall and into the gathering dusk.

 **End of Part Three**


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

The Lamplight Letters 50

 **\- Part Four -**

 **Chapter Twenty-Six**

When I was five or six-years-old, I developed a newfound interest in mirrors.

The reason had nothing to do with my appearance. I was plain then, as I was plain now, with eyes too owlish and chin too sharp, and little desire to dwell on either. No, it was the room that framed my features that interested me. I would peer into the glass and view the layout of my bedroom or the sitting room reflected backwards. A quiet, simple game culled from boring afternoons spent alone.

The point of the game was in the curiosity it produced. The rooms seen in the mirror were familiar, of course, yet somehow foreign. Studying them gave me a peculiar feeling, one both lonely and trimmed with hushed anticipation. As if, somewhere, there was another house like mine, where everything was turned around. No one lived in that other house. I imagined it stood there just beyond the mirror. Waiting for me to find it.

Returning to my room at Dreycott made me feel as though I had finally managed to step through that layer of glass. Although nothing had changed in the two months since I'd set foot in #16, there was a different quality to the place that made the interim of summer seem infinitely longer. True, it wasn't backwards like a reflection, but there was still a touch of the unfamiliar. Of the forsaken.

The bare, white walls were vacant, gaping eyes, now. The bed, with its stiff gray spread, a block of stone. The scuffs and few dead insects littering the floorboards, permanent fixtures, dark stains never to be scrubbed or swept away. All the while, the hawthorn outside the window tapped restlessly at the glass. The sound used to be comforting, a steady metronome to read or do homework by, but now it sounded fitful, an emaciated hand grasping out in the piebald gloom.

Near the window, the king chess piece on my desk stood erect, its walnut finish catching the evening's last bit of gray light.

I sat on the edge of my bed, arms folded, glaring at it blearily, having only just awoken from a nap taken to try and recover from the long train ride from Luxenbelle to London.

A year ago, today, the piece had nearly been stolen from me, snatched away during my first ill-fated encounter with the Patrol. Now I almost wished it had been taken, just so I wouldn't have to look at it. Wouldn't be reminded.

I had never believed it brought luck, but still, some childish part of me had, since receiving it, thought it a comfort to carry around and rub like a talisman. No more. It was wood, just like the floorboards beneath my feet. Just like the miserable hawthorn outside my window.

And it was mocking me. Standing so strong and solid and bright even as the few colors drained from the room; its warm wood and clean lines robust with vitality and good health. An unbearable contrast to its true owner.

 _Then why did you bring it? Why did you set it on the desk?_

I thrust the confusing questions from my mind, a familiar cold spreading its tendrils across my chest. The answer came, anyway, in the form of a flicker of a memory. How he had pressed the piece into my hand at the train station. He had stood taller then. Breathed fuller. The last precious memory untainted by sickness.

It had all begun when I'd first left for Dreycott. Since that time, his health had faded rapidly. As illogical as I knew it was, I couldn't help but link the two . That my absence had somehow changed him, made him susceptible.

And, now, I was back. I'd left him. Alone. No. Why had I done it?

My desk lost focus as my thoughts unfurled in a hundred directions, all rushing to impact at once, questions and worries weaving together until they were indiscernible.

Why had I come back? Even if there was no link, I knew I should be home with him. Sat by his bed. Not letting a single hour slip away. What if something else happened and I wasn't there to help him? It had to be my fault. What if there was something he needed to tell me, but was too weak to write? Maybe it was worry. Maybe I'd made him so anxious he'd fallen ill. What if he was lonely? After all, he knew I was keeping secrets from him. About Dreycott. About the Statue. What if his doctor made a mistake? I still hadn't told him anything. If I had, would he be well now? If I had, would the doctors have given my parents different news? All your fault. Selfish. All your fault.

" _He's no longer in partial remission…"_

I closed my eyes.

Gripped a handful of blanket.

I was teetering, faltering on the edge of the wheel of panic that had spun endlessly the last two months. I had promised myself that wheel stopped at Dreycott. Had already made up my mind what had to be done.

Inhale. Exhale.

I reopened my eyes. Tore them away from the chess piece, to the other side of the desk where two identical items lay side by side. Solid rods made of a dark blue-green metal and capped with faux sapphires. Keys to the dark door beneath the school. One I had found stashed in a forgotten box in a wardrobe on the fourth floor. The other, given to me by the headmistress I would see on stage only a few hours from now.

There were two other keys, as well, kept safe in the possession of friends. And tonight, if all went well, the four keys would be together again, for the first time in who knew how long.

Even as my heart beat a bit quicker at the thought, I felt myself grow calm, any remaining panicked thoughts fading. It was a dull calm, like a toothache when the pain momentarily subsides to a faint throb. A familiar calm, too. The kind that took hold whenever I sat down to a fresh match.

The mystery of Dreycott.

That was what I needed to focus on. That was what would keep me sane. Why I had fought to return in the first place.

 _Thud, thud._

I pulled my arms tighter about me, wrenching my eyes away from the desk.

"Come in."

The door creaked on hinges desperate for oil and Gemma peered in.

She was the same, anyway. Her mane of dark hair was a bit shorter, maybe, pulled back with a Dreycott blue head-band. She had greeted me an hour or so earlier when I'd first slipped into the girls' dormitories, though we'd soon parted ways to unpack our luggage before dinner.

I wanted to be annoyed at her for interrupting my reverie, but I couldn't. I had missed her too much.

My house had been so quiet over the summer. Usually, I would've considered that a blessing, but this quiet had not been restful. Instead, it had hung anxious and strained, stretching days that could only be filled by my own feverish thoughts. And I had taken it with me to Dreycott. Maybe…maybe Gemma could help keep me from getting too lost in it.

"Hey. Looks good."

She skirted my suitcases to stand next to me, looking about with a hand to her chin and an appraising gleam in her eye. "You're gonna pass inspections with flying colors."

I shrugged.

"What did you expect?"

"Ha, 'flying colors'. I just think of a rainbow with a face piloting an airplane. Dumb, right?"

I watched her gaze turn to the two keys sitting on my desk, then the chess piece. Her smile faded. "Erm," she fiddled with one of her suspenders, "You didn't say anything in your last letter, but, uh, I've been meaning to ask–"

 _Shhreeeeeeeeeeeee!_

The familiar cry of a shrill whistle penetrated my room, leaving my ears numb.

"Wow, supper already," Gemma said, relief straddling every word, "You ready to find the boys?"

My stomach twisted.

"I suppose."

I hadn't so much as caught a glimpse of Bernard or Clive since my arrival, though Gemma had spoken with the latter briefly. Apparently, he was eager to discuss his plans to open the black hatch tonight. Knowing that he had already settled back into his role of de facto leader and schemer of our little group made me a bit less apprehensive about our reunion. It wasn't that I didn't want to see him again, it was just…

We'd last been together in a dreary hospital waiting room, the morning my family and I were set to return home. Cogg had offered to take us straight to the train station, so I had said my goodbyes then and there.

By that time, I'd recovered from the shock of what had happened at the tournament, which, unfortunately, left a hollow for embarrassment to fill, reminding me again and again how I'd melted from champion to hysterical child in a matter of minutes. My goodbye to Clive had been cool, masking confounding feelings that I still couldn't sort. Gratitude for how he had stopped me from acting rashly, mingled with shame that he'd seen me in such a state, worse than that first night at Dreycott when he'd appeared out of nowhere to stand up to Vivian.

 _Shreeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

Speaking of Vivian…

Before I followed Gemma out into the hallway, I grabbed the two keys off the desk and slipped them into my bag.

As long as I remained focused on the plan, on what I had returned to Dreycott to do, as long as I kept my mind in that detached, calculating state it always clicked into during a match, I would be fine. _And_ , some biting part of me reminded, _as long as none of them ask about_ him.

As if plagued by a sudden doubt, I glanced over my shoulder. From this angle, one of the hawthorn's branches was poised in such a way that it looked ready to snatch the chess piece right off my desk.

I quickly turned away. The long, narrow hallway was filling up with girls, slightly disgruntled to be once more under the beck of the whistle, but also too excited to be among friends again to care all that much. There were fewer, though. No Tory. No Elsie. No Madge. All replaced by a handful of new faces.

I was a relieved to see Darcy. But, of course, she would be back. Her mother worked at Dreycott. There was Lily, inhaling bonbons even as she made her way to the dining hall. Cathy and Kate, boss and gopher, arguing as always. Ursula herding a few first-years like a mother hen. Vivian, standing off to the side, arms folded, keeping a watchful eye on everyone with the curling smile of a cat. No Juliet, though. For some reason, her absence only sharpened my anxiety.

"Maybe she transferred, too," Gemma said, reading my mind, "Maybe she transferred to Jupiter."

"I hope so," I muttered.

Something I had worried about during the train ride to London had been the prospect of navigating Dreycott's maze-like corridors and sudden dead ends again. My time away had allowed my memories of the school and its layout to grow to nightmarish proportions. For once, however, my fears proved unfounded. Gemma and I made our way to the dining hall with little trouble, guided both by the other pupils we passed along the way and the savory scent of warm food.

The spacious hall was bright and boisterous as always, although the gaps at the long tables were noticeable.

"Even the old staff is gone," Gemma said, as we headed out among the tables with our steaming trays, "Did you _see_ those guys working back in the kitchen? They look like pirates."

"No Jeremy, either," I said. Rosen had probably fired the private investigator after the disaster that was the masquerade. Good riddance. Maybe she'd even hired a better one. A competent one.

Gemma and I made our way to the usual table, the one under the window nearest the corner. I wasn't going to bother with the Patrol table tonight. It looked half-empty, anyway, as I imagined most were up and about running errands for the Professor.

"Where are those boys?" Gemma said, already slurping away at her stew, "I want to see if Trewinkle grew any over the summer. What if he's towering over the rest of us? That sometimes happens when short boys hit that late growth spurt. Mum says it's bound to happen to Sherman. I'm rather dreading it, actually, because once he…"

Gemma's joyous ramble faded into the background as my attention shifted to watching the entrance, waiting for Clive and Bernard to enter. As usual, two patrollers flanked the doorway. With a small shudder, I realized they belonged to Felix's gang.

Felix. Just another worry to add to the pile. What was he up to? Last term, his behavior had moved increasingly beyond the usual tiresome bullying, into the realm of suspicious: sneaking about on the fourth floor; fueling the flames of the growing divide in the Patrol; boasting about becoming Head Boy after Rosen had thrown him out of her inner circle; recruiting new members into his gang, including Juliet.

I thought of the confrontation during the masquerade, how Clive and I had almost been tossed in the fountain at her insistence, and another shudder racked my shoulders.

"And then, sometimes, you grow so fast your bones start popping out of place. Well, there's a more medical term for it, but it's basically –Oh, look! There they are!"

I followed her gaze. Clive and Bernard had already gotten their trays and were now heading towards our table.

My stomach started to twist again, worse than before. I quickly shifted my attention to my stew, only to discover it no longer looked appetizing.

"Amelia?"

I picked up my spoon and stirred chunks of beef and vegetables in a steaming whirlpool, trying to keep my eyes busy so they wouldn't wander back across the room.

"Amelia?"

"Huh?"

Gemma leaned across the table, scrunching her eyes at me.

"You okay?"

I set my spoon down.

"Yes. Just…tired, is all."

" _Pfft_. I know you're lying."

"What? No."

"You're fiddling with one of your ribbons."

I glanced down and saw she was right. I tossed my plait over my shoulder.

"I always do that."

"No. You fiddle with your _hair_ when you're thinking. You fiddle with your ribbons when you're making stuff up. Ha! See, I pay attention. Now, what's up?" Her cheeky smile from having found me out faded, along with her voice, "Something to do with Clive? Or…"

"What's to do with me?"

Clive and Bernard were standing over us, trays in hand.

"Nothing!" Gemma said, slipping out of her seat to put an arm round both boys, as per her standard greeting, "I said clove not Clive. You know, it's a seasoning. Now, I want to hear all about your summers!"

 _You scratch the back of your neck when you're making stuff up_ , I resisted the urge to say aloud, thinking her tell much more obvious than mine. For some reason, this bit of snark heartened me and so I sat up straighter, chipping in with my own question, hoping it came out more cheerful than I felt.

"Yes, anything exciting happen?"

"This is why we wrote letters to each other," Bernard replied, "So we could skip the pleasantries when we got back."

He looked the same as always. No impressive growth, spurt, unfortunately for Gemma. Same dour expression and slate gray jumper emblazoned with the Dreycott insignia. A match made in heaven.

I let a small smile slip. It was good to see him again, scowl and all.

Clive, on the other hand, _was_ a little taller. And he was wearing a blazer that fit him much better than the baggy one from last year he had used to store all his writing supplies (which appeared, instead, to be tucked away in a new olive-green messenger bag slung over his shoulder).

 _That makes two of us_ , I thought, ducking down to adjust my socks. Mum had managed to find me some that fit my stickly legs instead of bunching round my ankles. I still tugged at them, though.

Hidden under the table, I let my smile grow. It was true, Clive looked more grown-up, but he still had a slightly crooked tie and ink stains on his hands. To say nothing of his cowlick.

"Yeah, except your letters were always only a sentence long!" Gemma was saying to Bernard, "Like 'Nothing interesting to report, goodbye, also I hate everyone, have I mentioned that?'"

Gemma's growly imitation of Bernard drew a laugh out of Clive.

"You're lucky then, Gemma," he said, his cheeky smile rivaling her own, "Mine were usually only three words long: 'Don't write back'."

Gemma patted him on the back in mock sympathy, though her grin gave her away.

"Gosh, I've missed you."

Bernard sat down next to me, slamming his tray on the table.

"I haven't."

"What about me?" I asked, shooting a smug look at Clive and Gemma, "Your letters to me were almost fourwhole sentences long."

"Alright, I did miss the _one_ person I can have a decent conversation with at this hell school," Bernard consented grudgingly.

"Uncalled for," Clive chuckled as he sat down next to Gemma. He stuck his nose in the air, "I pride myself on being a perfectly tolerable conversationalist."

I demonstrated my most haughty laugh, honed from hours at the chessboard.

"As any proper little rich boy should be."

" _Ooo-ooh!_ " Gemma slammed her fists on the table, sending Bernard's silverware bouncing into his lap. His yelp, coupled with the look of offended surprise that flashed across his face, was enough to give all three of us fits.

"Alright, you win," Clive chuckled, as our laughter subsided.

"Don't I always?" I replied. I wasn't ready to drop the act, but the words came out hollow.

"I suppose…"

His voice faded as we studied one another from across the table. I felt my confidence drain away with my smile.

"How are you?" he asked.

Here it was. Deep breath.

"Fine," I replied, straightening, meeting his eye with a steady gaze, "And yourself?"

He seemed a bit taken aback by my short tone. I was taken aback by it. It was the tone I used with strangers, not friends. And we had only just been teasing one another…

"Well enough," he hesitated. I knew what was coming. I could see the concern in his brown eyes, furrowing his brow into ridges that were deeper than they ought to be for a sixteen-year-old. "And your granddad? How is he?"

He spoke the name and broke the spell. In my room, I imagined the hawthorn branch closing its long, slender fingers round the chest piece.

Such a simple question…one with an impossible answer. I supposed on the outside there appeared to be an improvement. Granddad was confined to bed-rest, but his cough had softened, and his cheeks remained flushed a warm and healthy pink. All thanks to a new treatment plan.

 _Temporary treatment plan_ , I reminded myself. And then the tendrils of ice in my chest, that had begun to melt from my reunion with my friends, climbed into my throat, the cold grip of the last two months tightening round my heart, smothering it with frost.

Sleepless nights scarred with hazy nightmares, long days spent trying to keep my mind occupied in any way I could, menial chores, rereading old books, running errands with mum, chess with granddad, trying to concentrate, but all the while thinking, thinking, thinking of words I was never supposed to hear.

A conversation meant only for my mothers' ears in a cramped doctor's office on the eighth floor of a gray London hospital.

Words that kept me up at night and dragged me down during the day. Words that I understood with perfect clarity yet couldn't begin to accept.

" _He's no longer in partial remission. The cancer is spreading. It's already begun to metastasize to his liver–"_

No!

I shut down the memory before it could unfold, before it could reach the suffocating climax.

No.

Think of your friends. Dreycott. The investigation. Why you came back. Otherwise, you'll crack. You'll split apart, and it will all come rushing out. You can't let that happen. Not again.

"Granddad's doing fine," I heard the words before I realized I was the one speaking them. They were all looking at me now with such concern I forced myself to continue, "He still needs plenty of rest…doesn't have a lot of energy. But the new treatment seems to be working. He's in good spirits. "

I forced a weak smile to my lips to reinforce my reply.

 _Done. You did it. That's all you need to say._

"I'm glad he's feeling better," Clive said, relief softening some of the strain around his eyes as he returned my smile.

"I have some books he might be interested in if he's looking for something to read," Bernard added, "I'm sure a mind like his would appreciate Broadbent's approach to information processing."

Gemma reached across the table and gave my hand a brief squeeze.

"He'll be back to his regular self in no time."

The sickness uncoiling in my stomach made me lose my appetite entirely. I pushed away my bowl of stew.

"Gemma told me you wanted to talk to us about tonight?"

Bernard was right. No time for pleasantries. We had work to do.

Clive blinked in surprise.

"Er, yes…"

He gave me one last glance before turning to his notebook set on the table, flipping through pages solid with research, his eyes scanning each line briefly. "Where to begin," he muttered, then cleared his throat, "Well, I'm sure you've already noticed, but numbers are down. Rumors about the Statue are escaping and taking all sorts of shapes."

His fingers began to tap restlessly against the table, "If someone intends to ruin Dreycott's reputation, they're succeeding magnificently."

"But _Felix_ is still here," Gemma hissed, "And all of his gang. I saw them earlier, hanging out in the hallway. Seemed like they were plotting something, if you ask me."

"Maybe another initiation?" I said, "Rosen might announce some new patrollers tonight at the welcoming ceremony."

"She might," Clive agreed, "But no matter. It doesn't change the plan I've been working on."

"The black hatch?" I ventured.

"Yes. We're going to try and open it tonight before curfew. As soon as the welcoming ceremony is over, we'll head for the cellar and then report to Mr. Crimp. Hopefully, the Patrol will be distracted for a bit getting everyone back to the dormitories."

"Wait, what's this about Mr. Crimp?" Gemma asked.

"Yes, I'd like a heads-up before we involve dubious gardeners in our plans," Bernard added.

Clive let slip a faint, sheepish smile.

"Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. I spoke with Mr. Crimp earlier. He wants to meet with us at his place if we manage to unlock the hatch."

"Is that all he said?" I asked.

Clive rubbed his chin.

"I think he has something he wants to tell us. He seemed…preoccupied. Didn't even crack a joke about skateboards, if you can believe it."

"Shocking," Bernard muttered.

"Anyway, I think he's as curious as we are to find out where that tunnel behind the hatch leads."

Gemma was nearly shaking, whether with excitement or fear, I wasn't sure. She reached down into her bag and pulled out her sapphire key, glancing about to ensure no one was watching.

"Did you bring yours, Clive?"

"Of course," he pulled out his own key and set it next to Gemma's while I took out the two from my bag. The facets of each of the four sapphires caught the light, alternating glints of blue and warm amber.

"You should hold on to one, too, Bernard," I said, "That way if I'm caught, only one will get confiscated."

I glanced again at the patrollers standing guard near the doors, a curious sense of dread building within me.

 _If I'm caught._

I wasn't sure why I had said it, only that it seemed a definite possibility now, that Felix would try to hinder us any way he could.

Without a word, we each took one of the keys, tucking them away in our bags

"Well, let's not let out food get cold," Gemma said, "We'll need all our energy for tonight. Who knows what we'll find on the other side of that door?"

Her words effectively ended all conversation as we each turned to our suppers. Outward conversation, anyway. Inwardly, I continued to puzzle over the question, among countless others.

 _Is the door connected to the Statue? Where does it go? Why was it locked in the first place? And why was Gemma so frightened of it when we first found it?_

When we had finished eating, we handed in our dishes and joined the growing stream of pupils. One and all headed for the lecture theatre where Professor Rosen would deliver her annual address to the incoming class.

All five of them, I thought as we entered the theatre. The gaps in the tiered stone benches were noticeable. The sight made me think of an endgame in chess; most pieces were captured by then, leaving the board largely deserted–all save for a few key survivors.

"Amy! Over here!"

Ursula waved at me from the front row, where the patrollers sat across from the faculty. It was good to see her in such high spirits after the whole Juliet affair. At least someone at Dreycott looked like they wanted to be there.

I shrugged at Clive, Bernard, and Gemma.

"I'd better. I don't want anyone thinking we're up to something."

"Right. We'll meet you out in the hall, then," Clive said.

I watched them start up the aisle stairs, before making my way to the front.

"So good to see you!" Ursula said, as soon as I had slid in next to her.

She studied me a second.

"Everything okay? I mean _–_ how was your summer?"

"It was…quiet."

I left it at that, wondering if she had caught wind of what had happened at the tournament. Probably.

"Oh. Erm, well, if you're sure you're alright… Anyway, I've got to tell you something!"

Her hazel eyes flashed with grim conspiracy as she continued, "It's going around that the Professor is going to announce something really big tonight!" her voice dropped, "I can't help but think…"

"You think she's going to say something about the Statue?"

"Maybe," Ursula looked away, wilting just a bit, "I just don't know what to feel about it all, anymore. I love Dreycott, but after what happened at the premiere and the masquerade…I don't know if I should be here. Like, is it even safe? Seems like no one really knows anything."

"Except Felix," I couldn't help but say, " _He_ knows something."

"Oh, you're right!" Ursula's usually kind features flared with anger, "I said 'hi' to him earlier, you know, just trying to be friendly and he was all smirky as can be. Juliet, too. I still don't know how she _ever_ got in with Felix and his gang."

"I hate to say it, but I think it might have something to do with the Statue."

Ursula sighed.

"I'm not even surprised…"

Her attention shifted. I followed her gaze to the row opposite our own. Professor Rosen had stood. Silence fell like a curtain over the hall as she mounted the stage and made her way to the podium.

Same confident stride as last year, but now, sitting in the front row, I could see that her expression did not match in the slightest. If anything, it looked even more weary and haggard than it had been at the tournament, as though sleep had not only been eluding her, but taunting her, as well. I knew the feeling.

"Welcome to Dreycott School, both to our new pupils and those returning. I trust you all had a refreshing summer holiday."

Professor Rosen gripped the podium, her spider pendant glinting haphazardly under the lights.

"Though it may be hard to believe, I am very pleased to announce that this December will mark the 500th anniversary of our beloved school."

Five-hundred years? I knew Dreycott was one of London's oldest schools, but the number hadn't really struck me until now. A school built on puzzles and secrets… half a millennial's worth.

"An impressive achievement, to be sure," the Professor continued, "and I cannot express how honored I am to serve as headmistress during this time of celebration. A time to look back on our illustrious past and gain wisdom for a brighter future."

Even as she said the words, the Professor's expression darkened, her eyes clouding over, losing focus on the sea of intent faces gazing up at her.

"I would also like to announce that because of the anniversary, there will be no midsummer masquerade this year."

The Professor paused to let the inevitable murmurs ripple about.

"Instead, a special winter gala is being planned before the Christmas holiday. All are invited to attend."

More murmurs. My stomach was knotting, and I wasn't sure why.

"This year everything is going to change at Dreycott," Rosen took a deep breath, "I cannot deny that last year was a rocky one. I know many of you are concerned about these past incidences and what this new term might hold. First, I think you might notice that some of your classmates are missing. While I will not account for all of them at this time, I can tell you that the malicious pranksters who caused so much trouble at the premiere and masquerade have been caught and dealt with. They are no longer in attendance at Dreycott."

Ursula and I shared a baffled look as ripples of conversation once more zig-zagged through the room.

"What? But who? I haven't heard anything," Ursula whispered.

"She's lying," I murmured.

There was no "malicious pranksters", no pupils capable of pulling off what Clive, Bernard, and I had witnessed that night in the rotunda. An empty reassurance, that was all it was. A last-ditch attempt at preserving the school's crumbling reputation.

I only needed to study Rosen's expression to see I was right. That she put no stock in her own words.

"I do not want to go into any details, but if any of you have questions I would be happy to discuss these matters privately in my office to the extent I am able."

Her gripped on the podium tightened.

"Secondly, to ensure that nothing of this scale ever occurs again, I have decided to make several changes to our current body of Patrollers."

Down the row, Vivian sat up straighter, green eyes flashing bright as stars.

"After discussing last year's incidents with Ms. Goodson and Mr. Porter, we have decided it is time for a change in leadership. That is why I am pleased to announce that Felix Rimswald and Juliet Northwright will be serving as our new Head Boy and Girl."

The words nearly knocked me from my seat.

Felix and Juliet. Heads. What–? How–?

More murmurs, louder, more restless, rolled up and down the rows. Vivian stood, fists clenched, shoulders heaving, eyes no longer stars, but suns of rage and disbelief, scorching the Professor.

"Let's give them a warm round of applause, shall we?"

There was a slight tremor in her voice. Her countenance, sickly white under the bright stage lights, had crumpled with distaste, her eyes reflecting defeat and exhaustion. It was as if her announcement had been pried unwillingly from her lips.

Felix and Juliet stood up from the end of my row. They mounted the stage under a scattered shower of bewildered applause.

I had to blink twice at their altered appearances. Juliet's caramel hair had been forced into tight corkscrew ringlets that she continuously tossed over her shoulder and patted with her hands as if to provide constant reassurance of their springiness. Felix's fiery red hair, on the other hand, was swept back in a ponytail and tied with a ribbon, like an old-fashioned gentleman. It was hard to tell which hairstyle was more alarming or why being promoted to Head required such bizarre transformations in the first place.

Reaching the podium, Felix and Juliet shook hands with the Professor and then turned to gaze out upon all of us, hunger keening in their eyes and the bent of their smiles.

The sight of the two patrollers standing side by side killed any remaining murmurs. Vivian's heavy breathing was all that reached my ears. Trevor tugged at her sleeve, but she ignored him.

Professor Rosen cleared her throat.

"I want to wish you all the best in your studies. I promise you that this year will be a safe and productive one. P _raeteritum est, non tacet_. Thank you."

As she stepped down from the stage, the confusion that had been restrained by her speech cracked like a dropped egg, splattering the theatre with noise and activity. Pupils and patrollers alike began talking at once, springing up from their seats, milling about in dazed swarms, and drawing close in conspiratorial clusters. Vivian steamed towards Professor Rosen, only to be held back by a sharp, quiet word from Trevor, puffing to catch up with her. She stopped, fuming in silence as the professor slipped out of the theatre, escorted by her secretary, seemingly oblivious to the chaos left in her wake.

Across the room, several of the other patrollers were on a mission of their own, heading for Ms. Goodson and Mr. Porter who looked the proverbial deer in the headlights.

The only ones not making any sort of fuss were the faculty, themselves. They remained sitting for the most part, murmuring quietly, looking vaguely sleepy and uncomfortable. Even Ms. Giltwing seemed rather drab and lifeless, dressed in dull mauves and faux gray fur, listlessly batting one of her earrings with her finger.

Professor Xander, on the other hand, was frowning at Felix and Juliet, hand clasped to his chin. He, too, looked more haggard than usual, but there was still a sharpness to his gaze that made me hope he might have the gall to confront Rosen on her latest decision.

"I can't believe it," Ursula said. She was still seated next to me, apparently stunned, "What's the Professor thinking?"

I was about to voice my own disbelief when an ear-splitting shriek shot out from the stage. I winced, hands flying to cover my ears.

"QUI-ET!"

Juliet stood under the spotlight, dialing up the volume knob on the microphone. When she was satisfied she had our attention, she handed it over to Felix, who quickly adjusted the sound.

"Ladies and gentlemen," His stilted inflection set my teeth on edge. "Let's give another round of applause for our dedicated and vigilant teachers, shall we?"

The threatening edge that had crept into his voice ensured an encore-level of clapping. The teachers blinked, shifting in their seats, faces an assortment of apathy and confusion.

"It being the first day of classes tomorrow," Felix continued, "I'm sure you must all have last minute preparations to attend to."

He snapped his fingers. His gang materialized from different places around the hall, rising from their seats and converging near the front of the room near the teachers.

"The Patrol will assist you to your cars. A bit dark out there, you know. Wouldn't want anyone stumbling and… fracturing something."

On this ominous note, I witnessed what had to be the most ludicrous sight I had yet seen at Dreycott.

Without any form of protest, the faculty stood, gathering their things as they spoke indistinctly amongst themselves. I watched in disbelief as they followed Felix's gang out of the theatre, shoulders slumped, features sagging with fatigue, like they were nothing more than a group of naughty school-children caught out of bed. I might've laughed had I not felt so sick to stomach.

When they were gone, all eyes returned to Felix. His own eyes were crackling and for once, I knew exactly what he was thinking.

 _Alone at last._

"We've a special announcement of our own to make," he said, "To discourage any potential troublemakers, our first decision as Heads is to implement a seven o'clock curfew."

"And it looks like it's 7:05," Juliet giggled, wagging a finger, "So, as of now, all of you are breaking the rules." She tapped her chin, "Oh, but Felix, let's give them five minutes head-start. It's more fun that way."

Felix heaved a mock paternal sigh.

"Fine, then. Five minutes to return to your dormitories," he grinned, revealing teeth newly stripped of their braces, "Anyone caught outside after that will have to deal with me."

I noticed the entrance to the theatre was now flanked by two of his beefiest gang members. Felix waved a hand. "Off to bed with you, then."

"Don't let Araneae bite," Juliet added, leaning into the microphone.

Conversations remained subdued as pupils followed the example of their teachers, rising from their seats and hurrying towards the exit like a procession of sheep. Even the patrollers on Vivian's side seemed to have lost their verve.

I wasted no time darting out of the front row and up the stairs, searching the aisles until I met Clive, Gemma, and Bernard halfway.

"We need to hurry," I whispered.

"We also need to remain calm. We can't draw any suspicion."

Heeding his own words, Clive cleared his throat, forcing a light and conversational tone, "So, what do you think of this winter gala business? Going to attend?"

The four of us blended into the current of pupils filtering out of the theatre, maintaining a façade of small talk as we went. The two patrollers glared with folded arms as we passed but made no attempt to stop us.

I breathed a sigh of relief as soon as we had stepped out into the hallway. Once we had turned the corner, I allowed myself to ask the question I knew was tormenting everyone.

"Why? Why would she do it?"

"It makes no sense," Gemma replied, "Felix may have Mr. Porter and Ms. Goodson fooled, but the Professor? She'd never agree to promote him like that!"

Clive pushed back his bangs.

"When the she was up there…I felt she was just a mouthpiece for someone else. I don't think it was her decision at all."

"Clive," Bernard's bushy brows hung solemnly over his eyes, "Don't you think we had better wait until tomorrow? After classes?"

Clive's tread never faltered.

"Don't you realize? Felix knows we're up to something. And now he's got the run of the place. Tomorrow, he'll have a set of eyes on each of us. We've got to do it now, while he's distracted."

The urgency in his tone was only too familiar. I didn't say anything, watching that restless fire burn in his eyes.

After several turns, and one brief back-tracking, we reached the cellar. It was just as I remembered it, cold and gray-brown, save for the hulking form of the furnace where a flicker of flames could be seen licking the metal grating of the door. Several theatre sets had been added to the countless others already stored, pieces from last spring's play and the midsummer masquerade that added pastel pops of color to the drab. We stepped passed a row of crooked houses and a fairy circle of mushrooms bolted to a platform, over to the door to the underground room dusted with shadows.

Clive made short work of the lock, clicking on his torch and leading the way down. When he pressed the panel that opened the wall at the end of the stairs, the stench of decay was nearly overpowering. I had to blink back tears as I stepped into the room, my face instinctively screwing up to hinder the smell.

The rubbish heap in the center of the room had grown, shredded paper, food scraps, and rotting leaves creeping towards the walls. On the ceiling, I caught a dull glint of the circular iron cover that the Patrol used as their own special entrance for unsuspecting initiates.

"Freezing down here," Gemma murmured. She had brought her own torch and the shadows it painted under her eyes gave her words eerie weight.

I shivered. Perhaps it would have been more tolerable had it been a dry cold. Instead, the air was hung with a wet stickiness that clung to my skin and hair like a net.

The beam of Clive's torch had already found the spider puzzle built into the wall.

"Care to do the honors?" he asked me.

I nodded and stepped forward, happy to direct my attention away from the smell. As soon as I slid the spider down, a familiar sharp click drew my attention to the far wall. A portion of the stone ground open, revealing the black hatch.

I pulled my key from my bag as we knelt around it in a half-circle. The sight of the finely wrought metal, woven with spiders and intricate webs, made my skin crawl. A small part of me wondered if human hands could have made such a spell-binding design or…something else.

Clive shone his light between the twisting lattice into the mouth of the tunnel. There was nothing to see but cobwebs and dust.

How far did it go? Where did it go? And most importantly, would we finally be able to open it?

"I don't think these are bolts," Bernard said, fingering one of the four oddly shaped metal pieces that occupied each corner.

"They're key-holes," Gemma finished. She carefully slid the end of her key into one of the holes. It clicked into place like a magnet. Clive placed his below while Bernard and I fitted ours into the other side. Now the hatch was framed by four blue gems, sprouting from its corners like brilliant flowers on metal stems.

"Now what?" I asked.

Clive tried turning his key, but it was locked in place.

"Let's try turning them all at the same time," he suggested, "Clockwise, first."

We muttered consent. I tightened my grip on the key as Clive steadied himself with a breath, "Okay, then. On the count of three. One…two… _three_."

We turned our keys as one.

A sharp click, four pops as the keys clattered from their holes and rolled across the floor, and then a groan as the top of the hatch swung down on nearly invisible hinges. We scrambled back on hands and knees before it dropped to the floor with an ear ringing clang, leaving the mouth of the tunnel exposed.

"We did it," Clive said. He pushed the keys aside, and stuck his head into the tunnel, shining his torch as far as his arm would reach.

"Can you see where it goes?" I asked.

"No. But I think I can just fit," he pulled his head out and turned around, hair dusted, eyes keen, "Are we ready?"

Silence.

I studied the mouth of the tunnel, tugging at my hair, wishing we knew what was at the end before venturing in. I wasn't claustrophobic, but the thought of squeezing myself into a small space that lead into the unknown was far from appealing.

"We don't have a lot of time," Bernard said, "I don't like it either, but we're here. Let's get it over with."

Inhale. Exhale.

"Right."

No time for hesitation. "You ready, Gemma?"

I was hoping for a wise-crack to lighten the mood, a hope that quickly faded when I saw the color in her cheeks had drained to ghost-white, her eyes fixed on the tunnel.

"Gemma?" I repeated softly.

She touched her head, wincing, as if the name were painful to her.

"Sorry. I thought I could do it but–maybe I should just wait out here and keep watch," she attempted a feeble smile, "I'll can hurl rubbish at anyone who comes down looking for us."

"Are you sure?"

I didn't like the idea of her being alone. Not that I didn't trust Gemma, but the last time she'd seen the hatch she'd led us on a wild goose chase. When we'd finally tracked her to the rotunda she had been in tears–all because of the rumors that she was Araneae reborn. She thought there could be a connection between the hatch and Araneae. But was there really? The only evidence was the spider design in the lattice-work and the sapphires on the keys. And, I supposed, that murky bit of legend that Lily had shared about Araneae being trapped beneath the school. It wasn't anything substantial–but Gemma's fear was, and I couldn't be sure how it would affect her judgement.

What to say? A glance at Bernard and Clive told me they were just as clueless.

"Gemma, maybe–"

"I remember now."

The finality in her voice made me pause.

"What?"

"I remember I came here when I was little."

"You saw this room when you were little?" Clive asked gently.

"No, but I came to Dreycott…I got lost…I found a door like this one…somewhere dark…I was crawling through a tunnel, and then a big room…"

Gemma pressed a palm to her forehead.

"I don't know. If it's just dreams or if it really happened. I've–I've been having so many dreams…"

I put a hand on her shoulder and she finally looked up at me, her eyes, dark and glassy, as if she had stepped through a mirror, into a place both familiar and strange.

"Sometimes it's dark when I get to that big room… But when I was little, and I found it, it was bright. There was a big window in the middle of the ceiling and it let in so much sunlight. That's why I think that one is real. That one is a memory."

"You're having a panic attack and it's interfering with your ability to distinguish fantasy from reality. Try taking some deep breaths."

Something in Bernard's tone made me think we was trying to be comforting, but Gemma merely closed her eyes.

"No, something's wrong with me. I shouldn't go through there. Go on without me. Please."

She was trembling. I let go of her shoulder, wishing I could say something to soothe her, to restore that usually boundless cheer, but I was at a loss.

"You sure you'll be alright?" I asked.

Gemma nodded.

"I'll keep watch at the door, warn you if I hear anything."

"Good idea, Gemma," Clive said, offering her an encouraging smile, "You be our whistle-blower. We'll be back shortly."

He pulled himself into the cramped tunnel, the walls brushing his shoulders, followed by Bernard. I paused at the tunnel's lip to glance back at Gemma, standing by the door, in a pool of light from her own torch.

She offered me a weak smile and a wave. I waved back, trying not to think how the shadows seemed ready to swallow her whole.

The tunnel turned out to be longer than I anticipated. For nearly ten minutes, all sensation was reduced to crawling, the scruff of shoes and trousers, of my own skirt sliding across the floor, the huff of breath, the slight wavering of Clive's torch. All the while the walls seemed to press closer until I felt they were squeezing my sides, loosing a flutter of panic.

Just before the feeling could take definite form, however, the space ahead opened, and I tumbled after Bernard into another room with dimensions impossible to guess. The ceiling was lost to gloom even as Clive shone his light in an upward arc, while the walls were jagged, natural stone. Had we stumbled into a cave?

"Dead end," Bernard said, his words made small by their impressive echo, "Now a boulder will tumble down and block the way we came, trapping us here for eternity."

"Losing your touch, mate," Clive chided, turning his torch in a slow arc so that each stone was briefly frosted with a white-yellow glow. "Thought for sure you'd say the ceiling would cave in and bury us all alive."

Bernard shrugged.

"It all adds up to the–"

"Ah!"

Clive took off across the room, sending pebbles skidding. We followed him to the far wall and were met by a familiar sight. An alphabet panel, much like the one that guarded the entrance to the secret hideout behind the portrait. This one, however, was made of stone. Some sort of jagged inscription was carved above it.

The three of us bent closer. Clive swiped at the words with his sleeve.

"Ye who seek…passage…" I said, squinting at the narrow words, "To the devil's labyrinth…enter…enter her name…"

"She who lies entombed beneath," Clive continued, "Thy noble ancestor. Wordless, soundless, voiceless. With letters inscribed by lamplight, let her speak once more, that the truth may be revealed…"

"And thy inheritance rightly claimed," Bernard finished.

We were silent, pondering the words. After a moment, Clive stretched out his finger and gingerly pressed the letters A-R-A-N-E-A-E on the panel.

A minute passed. Then another. I glanced towards the ceiling, not sure what I was hoping to see, but half-expecting Bernard's boulder to come tumbling down.

"Hm."

"Try Hyacinth," Bernard suggested.

"I don't think that's it," I said, "This place…it's old. A lot older than Hyacinth."

"I think you're right," Clive said, "Devil's labyrinth…"

The name itched at the back of my mind, but I couldn't place it.

"Sounds like someone is buried under the school," Bernard mused, "But if it's not our favorite school monster…who?"

His question faded, unanswered.

I shivered. With no one speaking, the hollow void of the cavern pressed against my ears. Not so much a sound, as a palpable silence. I felt we were trespassing in some netherworld, one that lay sleeping deep between the crevices and cracks of the earth where no life was allowed to venture.

"There's nothing for it," Clive said, "We'll just have to keep researching."

The disappointment in his voice was evident. I, too, felt it. For so long the hatch had remained elusive. I had thought once we opened it we would finally alight upon some sort of answer. Yet here we were, with only another cryptic puzzle to show for our efforts.

"Uh…gang?"

The voice was faint, distorted by echoes, but unmistakable.

"Gemma?"

I bent back down into the tunnel. At the far end, I thought I could just make out the smudge that was her face.

"Someone's in the cellar," There was a quick intake of breath, "I –I think it's Felix."

Clive dropped to his knees and was crawling back through the tunnel before Bernard and I could stop him.

We glanced at each other, long enough to exchange an eye-roll, then slipped into the tunnel, Bernard mumbling curses under his breath.

When we re-emerged in the main room, Clive and Gemma were standing at the bottom of the steps, torches low, heads cocked.

"I'm not sure what's going on," Gemma whispered, "I swear I heard him."

Bernard and I crept closer. Floorboards creaked above us interspersed with the mutter of low voices. A dull _thunk_ made my ears tingle, followed by a metallic scraping as the cover in the ceiling was dragged from its hole, leaving a crescent of amber light in its wake.

The four of us backed further into the shadows. The shaft of light widened, illuminating the squalor of our surroundings. One final heave and the cover was pulled completely free.

"Take a look down there."

The voice was clear now. My jaw tightened. Felix. "You know where it leads?"

A small face set with wide, round eyes peered down into the hole. A boy, a little younger than myself. He choked, his nose crinkling in disgust at the smell before the pair of hands clamped on his shoulders pulled him back.

"That's where Araneae lives. You heard of Araneae, Hugh? She's the school's mascot. Bit of a monster, she is. Always hungry. But first-years are her favorite."

"What's _–_ what's that smell?"

Felix chuckled.

"She doesn't eat every part, so the stench of her previous victims has built over the centuries."

A round of sniggers drifted down.

"What about you? Nigel, is it? Care to take a look?"

"N-no, sir," came the faint reply, "I really just want to go to bed, sir."

"Sir! I like that. Respectful. We could use a lad like you helping us, Nigel."

"You _–_ you could?

"Yeah. But see, we don't let any old Tom, Dick, or Harry join the Patrol. You have to be initiated."

"Initiated?"

"Normally we'd toss you down here, so you could solve some old stodgy puzzle, but now that I'm Head I think I'll mix things up a bit…"

A pause, long enough for my straining ears to catch the thud of my own heart.

"I know, Nigel," Felix said with a clap, as though he had just alighted upon the most extraordinary idea, "How about this? You prove yourself… by pushing your friend down there."

Felix's gang responded with incredulous laughter and cheers.

"Yeah!"

"C'mon!"

"Do it, firstie!"

"Just one little shove!"

"I–I can't," Nigel's voice wavered, "Please. I promise we weren't trying to sneak off anywhere. We–we just got lost."

"Yeah," Hugh chimed in, "We got lost."

"I don't want excuses," Felix replied, an impatient edge to his words, "I want to see if you have what it takes. Now, push him in. Don't worry, there's enough bones down there to soften his fall. He'll live, anyway."

The cheering drowned out any reply Nigel might have given, quickly merging into a single chant.

"Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!"

Beside me, Clive's shoulders heaved as his breathing grew increasingly agitated. He planted his right foot on the first step, fists clenched.

"I'm going up there."

"What?" Bernard whispered, "Are you mad?"

"I'll go with you," Gemma's eyes flashed with anger.

"No. Stay hidden."

"Clive, wait–"

Too late. He was already flying up the stairs, feet striking stone just long enough to propel his legs three steps at a time.

The door to the cellar slammed open, the raucous chant shattered by a single name.

"Dove!"

Felix's surprised snarl of a greeting was the last intelligible word I made out before a tumult beset my ears, a raw, knotted pandemonium that locked me in place. Shouts of surprise. Grunts. The scuffle and creak of footsteps. A terrific crashing. Laughter and jeers.

"Go on! Get out of here!"

Clive. His words were quickly swallowed in the chaos of thuds and thumps and cries and crashes.

One sharp cry veered off from the rest, followed by a flailing figure who fell through the hole in the ceiling and landed in the rubbish heap, groaning softly as they rolled onto their back.

"Clive!?"

The lock on my feet broke. Before I could rush forward, Gemma caught my arm.

"That's not Clive! Come on! We have to help him!"

My heart drumming, blood and fear pulsing through my veins with each beat, I stumbled up the steps after Gemma. Just as she was about to open the door, Bernard wedged past me, placing a firm hand on top of her own.

"Wait," he hissed, "Just wait a second."

We stood still. Listening. The cellar had grown quiet, save for a ghost of ragged gasps that matched our own.

Gasps…but whose? What had happened? What was going on? Where was Clive? Was he alright? The latter question nearly made it to my lips when it was answered by the worst person possible.

"Dove," Felix spat the word like phlegm, "Why am I not surprised to see you? You know, this reminds me of last year. First day. When we tried shoving your friend in that bookcase. Remember that? I think it ended with Trevor's fist lodged in your eye socket. Pity, really. I should've been the one to do it."

Laughter seeped through the cellar, foul as the rubbish piled below us.

"You're wrong," It was a relief to hear Clive's voice, but his tone –it was one I'd heard before. Like a wily fox stalling for time. Wondering if he could outrun the hounds or if he was going to have to turn and fight his way out. "That's how it started. It ended with you and your friends grasping at air with rather clueless expressions."

"So, you slipped away from us," Felix sneered, " _Such_ an accomplishment."

Footsteps pounded down the stairs.

"We lost 'em, Felix," came a breathless voice.

"Who cares about two mousy first-years," Felix said, "When you've caught a nice, big rat?"

A snap, followed by a short cry and a heavy thud. More noxious laughter.

Terror coursed through me. Primal terror that screamed a single word: _run_.

"Shouldn't have come back, Dove," Felix said, "Should've stayed home with mummy. This is my school now."

"Your school?" Clive's voice was little more than rasp, "And here I thought – _oof!_ "

Gemma squeezed my arm so hard I could feel her pulse slamming against my own.

"Get him."

The hounds obeyed, baying with laughter. They had to be hounds. Their clamor was inhuman.

Footsteps converged, skidding, creaking, crashing. Shouts, jeers, cheers of triumph battling cries of defeat. The scuffle and press of bodies, pushing, shoving, groaning, grunting, limbs straining, fists impacting bone and flesh. Cracking, snapping, breaking. All snarling together in my ears, song of sweat and blood and pain, bringing the iron taste of blood to my own lip. The words that sprang from the cacophony, barking, sneering, exultant, rose above all, a crescendo of fevered victory.

"Ha!"

"Look at him!"

"Pathetic!"

"No place for strays like you at Dreycott."

"Where's your mum, Dove? Maybe if you cry hard enough, she'll hear you."

"What about your dad, Dove? He gonna help you?"

"Sure they died or did they abandon you?"

The numbing fear that, up until now, had tightly bound me turned to fire. I felt it, like the rush of heat when one opens an oven, a flaring, writhing, living spark, melting all chains, all thoughts of flight.

Slipping my arm free from Gemma's grasp, I threw open the door and rushed into the cellar.

"Leave him alone!"

Clive lay sprawled on his stomach across the floorboards, limp, bloody, bruised, his shirt torn and one eye already swelling shut. Felix's gang stood over him, one boy pinning him down with his foot, another who looked ready to deliver a boning-jarring kick to his side.

Seeing them altogether, I realized just how large Felix's following had grown. Nearly fifteen boys ranging from first-years to those nearing graduation. The new Head, himself, stood leaning against one of the old sets, not a hair out of place, looking as though he were merely watching an enjoyable street performance.

Every eye had locked on me in a heartbeat, but the only gaze I cared about was Clive's. Panic shown darkly in his one uninjured eye.

 _Run_ , I knew it was saying, _Get out of here_.

I ignored it, striding forward, instead, propelled by an anger that sent tremors rattling through my entire body.

I thought of Alexandre, how he had twisted the tournament to his liking, Mr. Harrier taunting the Professor behind a placid smile, Juliet ordering me and Clive tossed in the fountain, the person behind the Statue, how they had turned the school into a place where things like this could happen.

"Get away from him!"

A few of the patrollers stepped back, clearly surprised, but several others moved in front of Clive, blocking my path. Felix clicked his tongue, stepping amongst his gang. They parted before him, creating a straight path to Clive.

"Well, well. Ruth. Traitor to your own."

He reached Clive and peered down at him with raised eyebrows, shaking his head when the latter tried unsuccessfully to push himself up off the floor.

"What do you see in rubbish like this?"

He cocked his head and then shot his own well-placed kick into Clive's ribs.

" _Uuf_!"

Clive curled into a ball, clutching his side, face crumpling like old paper.

"Stop it!"

I charged into the ranks, nearly reaching him before someone stuck out a foot, catching my own. I tripped, slamming into the floor with an impact that tore the breath from my lungs. A cloud of grating laughter rained down on me.

"Whoops," Felix said, " _Déjà vu_ , right?"

"Amelia!"

Through a dizzy, pounding haze, I glimpsed Bernard and Gemma rushing forward. Gemma knelt beside me, while Bernard darted off into the shadows behind the jumble of sets and props, squeezing into a space just wide enough to fit him.

"Ha, ha!" Felix slapped his leg, "Looks like Bernie has less of spine than I thought."

He saw some of his gang were ready to rush after him and held up his hand. "It's too small. We'll wait 'im out. If he wants to play the coward, I say let 'im."

"You–you're the coward!" Gemma cried, pulling me to my feet, "Letting your lackeys fight for you!"

"You want some too, Mudget?" Felix said.

"Stop!" Clive gasped, "Leave them alone!"

Felix paused, his gaze following Clive's own to Gemma, then to me. A hint of a smile played on his lips.

"You're right," he said, straightening his sash, "It's not really our jurisdiction. Juliet is Head of the Girls' dorms now, after all…"

Felix snapped his fingers. "Martin, Craig, you stay with Dove. Make sure he stays put 'til we get back. Shriver, Giles, secure the girls. We'll deliver them to Juliet. Let her deal with them."

"No!" Clive made another desperate attempt to push himself up from the floor, but the one called Martin pressed his shoe against the back of his neck, pinning him once more.

Gemma and I backed towards the doorway. Shriver and Giles had broken off from the rest of the gang and started for us, grinning like wolves.

I began to cobble together a plan that involved slipping down into the rubbish room and hiding in the tunnel where the two boys couldn't possibly fit, but this was dashed when I glanced behind me. Two other patrollers had crept behind us. My old friends, the gangly Scissor-noses, striding to block the door. We were surrounded.

"Don't worry, Amelia," Gemma said in a low voice, "I fight my brothers all the time. I always win."

She raised her fists, lip trembling slightly. I couldn't bring myself to remind her a friendly tussle with her younger brothers was a bit different than going up against boys twice her size.

"We're not going to fight you," Giles sneered, "We don't want any blubbering."

"Yeah, well…we'll see who's blubbering."

"Gemma, no!"

Gemma ignored me, launching herself forward. She managed a solid punch to Giles's jaw before Shriver grabbed her from behind. I scrambled forward to help her, only for my arm to be snatched by one of the Scissor-noses closing in behind me.

"Let go!"

I tried wrenching myself away, kicking, tugging, delivering frenzied jabs with my elbows, but even this last-resort trick was useless. Scissor-nose caught my other wrist right before I could deliver another jab and twisted it, just enough for me to feel a sharp pinch. Black spots ate at the corners of my vision. It was all the opening he needed to pinion my arms behind my back.

"Let go of me, you scullion!"

Gemma was likewise incapacitated, still struggling against Shriver, attempting to kick at his shins. After a few futile punts, she let up, panting hard, hair sticking to the sheen of sweat coating her face.

We were hauled back over to Felix and the rest of the gang, who looked as though they had been enjoying themselves.

"That was pathetic," Felix chuckled.

Clive struggled to lift his head, coughing as the blood trickling from his nose reached his mouth.

"Let them–let them go!"

Felix delivered another kick to his side and he collapsed.

"Stop it!" I attempted to wrest myself free once more, my voice hoarse, nearly cracking, "Leave him alone!"

Clive was limp now. The rise and fall of his back provided the only reassurance he was still breathing.

Felix stepped over him to stand before us. He folded his broad arms, tilting his chin so he was looking down at us from the steepest angle possible.

"So. What were you four doing down there, eh? You gonna tell me or am I going to have to drag it out of you?"

The two of us remained silent, glaring. I realized I wasn't afraid of him, not anymore. After the tournament…Alexandre…everything that had happened, he wasn't going to intimidate me so easily.

Felix snapped his fingers.

"Carney, Ketner, go down there and see what you can find."

Two of the youngest boys shot out of the crowd without a word, disappearing down the steps

"I'm quite happy about this," Felix went on, "I was planning to round up the lot of you later this week, but this makes things much more convenient."

A groan. Felix glanced behind him, scowling. Clive was attempting to sit up again, his arms shaking with strain as they pushed against the floor. He managed to life himself up several centimeters before his strength left him and, with a gasp, fell on his face. Felix rolled his eyes.

"Pick him up. He can stand."

Craig grabbed Clive's collar and roughly hauled him to his feet. My heart lurched as his knees buckled, nearly collapsing as he clutched his side. Martin and Craig quickly steadied him, twisting his arms behind his back. I tried catching his eye, but he had hung his head, eyes squeezed shut and teeth set in a tight grimace.

"Now before I hand you over to Juliet, I have a message for you four," Felix said, gazing at each of us in turn, "Oh, wait. But first–do you like my hair?"

He shook his head, allowing his ponytail to swing freely, whacking his ears. "Juju did it for me. It's based off the style worn by Alistair Dreycott. Heard of 'im? He was a respectable gentleman," Felix grinned, "And a cutthroat pirate on the side. I've been reading up on Dreycott family history. Quite the family, they were. Linked to all sorts of dubious business. A shame they were snuffed out in their prime."

"It's not intimidating at all," Gemma snapped, "Especially not with that bow you probably stole from Amelia. Now get on with it."

Felix's eye twitch of annoyance was more than worth it. I nudged Gemma's shoulder, hoping it offered some scrap of encouragement. She returned the gesture with a wink.

"Alright, then. You want straight talk, I'll give you straight talk. I have an ultimatum for you four. A generous ultimatum, so listen carefully."

"Yeah? Well, you can take your generosity and shove it up your–"

Shriver clamped a hand over Gemma's mouth, stifling vocabulary her parents probably weren't aware she knew.

"You really don't know when to shut up, do you, Mudget?" Felix chided, causing another round of laughter.

"Leave her alone!"

I struggled against Scissor-nose yet again, wishing my glare was hot enough to sear.

"Anyway," Felix went on, ignoring me, "I'm only going to tell you this once so, _listen carefully_."

I gave Gemma another gentle nudge. It was all I could do.

 _Hang on,_ I hoped the gesture conveyed, _hang on, I'll get us out of this._

"I'm willing to let you four walk out of here right now. On one condition…"

Felix paused, his features hardening. "You leave Dreycott. For good."

"You want us to…leave?"

It hadn't quite been what I was expecting.

"Here's how it will be. We let you go without any further trouble. No need to involve Juliet. You'll return to your rooms, pack your things, and, by tomorrow morning, be on the next train or bus or what have you. You'll go home and never set a foot here again. Think about it. No more Statue or patrol to worry your little heads about. You can transfer to a nice, quiet school as far away from here as you like."

"And if we stay?" I asked.

"If you stay?" Felix repeated. He bent down until his eye-level was even with mine, so close I could feel his stale, hot breath, "You stay and I swear I'll make every day, every hour of your lives the most miserable hell you can imagine. My patrol will be watching your every move, breathing straight down your necks, tripping you up every chance they get. We will humiliate and harass you just as we're doing now, in every way imaginable."

"And if we're still here, after that?"

Felix straightened, eyes flashing in surprise at the voice's strength.

Clive had raised his head, his one good eye sharp and livid as a coal fresh from the fire. "If we're still here after you've finished trampling all over us, then what will you do, Felix?"

"I –" Felix appeared momentarily stunned. Clive took the opportunity to peer past him, locking eyes with me and Gemma.

"Are you both alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I said, though this wasn't quite true. My arms were started to go numb from being locked in such an awkward position while the stench wafting up from the hole in the floor coupled with the heat generated from so many tightly packed, sweat-slicked bodies was making me light-headed.

Gemma bit down on Shriver's thumb. He yelped and pulled his hand away from her mouth.

" _Blech_. Wash your filthy mitts between threatening people, why don't you?" she turned to Clive, "We're more worried about you, actually. Do you have any–"

" _Shut up!_ " Felix snapped, spittle flying from his mouth.

He quickly regained his composure, chuckling to himself, "Even if you stay, Dove. Even if you stay, your friends won't."

I flinched as he ran a smooth thumb and forefinger down one of my plaits, smirking at Clive, "Not even your little chess-nut, here. I'll make doubly sure of that."

Fury twisted Clive's blood-fouled features. He struggled against Craig and Martin, attempting a desperate lunge at Felix.

"If you hurt her, I swear–"

His words were choked into silence by Craig wrapping a beefy arm around his neck. Not to be outdone, Martin bent his arms tighter behind his back until fresh sweat broke out on his brow, his teeth ground in pain.

"Let me finish, Dove," Felix said patiently, "If you're quiet, I just might let you kiss your little chess-nut goodbye before we take her away. Now, where was I?"

With a sharp twist of my neck, I finally wrenched myself free from his grasp.

"You're wrong," I glared steadily at him, "I'm not going anywhere. No matter what you do."

"Me neither," Gemma said.

Felix sighed.

"Still think you're in the right, don't you, Ruth?" he said, "Still think Dove's a little hero bravely battling to expose all the secrets at Dreycott. Fighting for justice."

He put a hand to his heart, rolling back his eyes if he were about to swoon. My disgusted look pried a snicker from him. "Oh, no. No. He's a fraud. A sham, a bloody fake. He's been leading you on this whole time. You think he cares a wit about saving Dreycott? About stopping the Statue? Hardly."

"Not this crock about him being behind the Statue, again," I seethed, silently praying Clive would hold out until I thought of a plan. So far, my mind had been running blank, anger and worry clouding anything rational.

"Sorry," Felix continued, wagging his finger, "That was Vivian's theory. Poor, ignorant Vivian."

He began to pick at his teeth, a nonchalant gesture that further raised my ire, "All Dove cares about is destroying any credibility Rosen has left. As soon as he exposes the Statue he plans on linking it to Rosen's administration. Even if she has no part to play in it, it doesn't matter. He'll twist the facts 'til they fit the story he wants. The school will be destroyed, Rosen arrested. And if he finds that little eye of Araneae in the process? Well, another priceless trinket to add to mummy's coffers. Won't she be pleased!"

"You expect us to believe that?" I hissed. But I felt the bite of his words, spoken so matter-of-factly, sink deeper, paralyzing me with uneasiness.

I was reminded again of Alexandre. How he had tried to drive a wedge between granddad and I through his own poisonous words. I still thought about what he'd said, as much as I hated myself for it. I was afraid Felix's words would stick to me, too, regardless of how many times I brushed them off as lies.

Why?

Was it because it struck at that irrational fear that was always lurking somewhere in the back of my heart? That, even after all we'd been through together, my friendship with Clive was a sham? That if it was stripped down I'd find his motives were just as selfish as Felix, or Juliet, or Alexandre. And, like my parents, he would end up hurting me, all because I allowed myself to care about him.

I was only supposed to care about one person. The one who said he'd always look after me, held me when it seemed my parents wanted nothing to do with me, knew me better than anyone. But I'd left him for Dreycott, for my friends, and now, everything was falling apart.

 _Maybe you should take Felix up on his offer_.

Would it matter, though? Even if I returned to him, it wouldn't be the same. Knowing that he would be leaving me. Just as I always feared he would, down in the deepest recesses, the darkest place.

Maybe that was the small truth at the heart of Felix's lies, the real reason his words affected me. That you could never know, or love, or protect a person so well that you were sure your trust was safe–that your heart would remain intact. And the more you strived to trust, the more you strived to care for them, to lessen your doubts and give your heart the air it needed to breathe, the more you stood to lose if you were wrong.

" _He's no longer in partial remission. The cancer is spreading. It's already begun to metastasize to his liver…there are several treatment options but …stage four…he has two years at best…"_

"You don't know the whole story," Felix was saying, smiling condescendingly.

I only half heard him. That wheel of panic was spinning again, pulling me into its endless cycle of thoughts; anger and fear and disbelief and regret and guilt and what-if scenarios–up and down and over and over.

Stop.

I thought again of the king piece in my room. How strong and warm it stood, despite the gloom surrounding it, despite the ever-lingering hands of the hawthorn. The image faded, replaced by another. A memory.

 _Now, I'm not trying to frighten you, Amelia. But you must know that out there on your own you'll run into all sorts of people._

I looked to Clive, his features cobbled together with dried blood, bruises and pain. How he'd rushed to protect those two boys when he could have stayed quiet.

 _Every one like a piece on a chessboard, each with their own patterns, their own schemes, their own way of walking through the day._

Gemma. Her glasses were slightly askew, and I could see tears in the corners of her eyes as Shriver tightened his grip, leering down at her. But her mouth was set in a strong line and her eyes remained bright and defiant.

 _Each moving across the grand board of life in their own way, each with their own perspective._

And Bernard. He wasn't a coward. I knew he would never run away. He had to be close by, working on a plan.

 _You will simply be acquainted with most, while with some you will inevitably clash._

"Dove's covered his hatred for the Professor well, but he can't hide it forever," Felix was still at it, his smirk reaching for his ears. He knew he was getting to me.

 _And then there will be those precious few who have your best interests at heart. Look for those who are sincere and thoughtful, who don't think they have all the answers, but have strong convictions nonetheless._

I had made a promise at the tournament. To someday expose Alexandre's lies. To fight to protect granddad just as he had protected and cared for me all those years. Like he was still doing now, even in his illness.

I would return to him. I wasn't leaving him forever. I would return and stay by his side no matter what happened. We'd face the future together. But for now, I needed to be here. I knew he'd want me to be here. Fighting for Bernard, Gemma, and Clive just as I knew they were fighting for me. Because granddad wasn't the only one I cared about. The thought broke like dawn on the longest night, flush with color and light and warmth.

"You're lying," I said, fresh determination coursing through me, "If anyone hates the Professor, it's you."

I watched with satisfaction as Felix's smirk faded, just a little.

Clive looked up at me again. I was surprised to find sadness in his eyes, hesitant, searching, laced with regret and shame, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to tell me something.

I gave him a tight nod, wishing the expression would fade, unable to understand it.

 _We'll get through this. Hang in there._

"Yeah!" Gemma cried, "Professor Rosen…she doesn't trust you. You probably want to see her behind bars more than anyone."

"You're right," Felix agreed, not so easily beaten, "The woman is a pathetic excuse for a headmistress. And the way she ran this school was equally pathetic. All the charity cases she let in. Limiting the Patrol's authority to almost nothing but dining room duty? Letting anyone try out? This school is supposed to be for the best of the best, not any rubbish off the street."

"What?"

My brow furrowed. What was he talking about, limiting the patrol's authority? The Patrol had more authority than anyone at Dreycott. Rosen had given them that authority, herself. Unless…could it be…?

"But Rosen has to be taken down in the right way. At the right time," he went on, ignoring me, "By the right person. _And_ for the right reasons. Then, this school can be what it was before."

"With you at the top," I spat.

"You're–being lied to–Felix," Clive gasped, his face starting to turn a blotchy red, "Can't–can't you see that?"

"You're the only liar here," Felix countered, "I think it's time your friends finally were told what happened three years ago, don't you think? On October 19th."

There was that date again. Felix was always brandishing it like a sword. And no wonder–the effect on Clive was immediate, his good eye widening, betraying an alloy of horror and distress.

Before Felix could elaborate, however, the two boys who had gone down into the secret room darted up the stairs, grasping a key in each hand.

"They opened that door down there!" one of them said.

The three of us could only watch helplessly as the four keys were passed among Felix's gang and examined briefly, before being handed over to the leader, himself. Felix tucked them away in his pockets, patting each briefly with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Interesting," he said, "Where did the tunnel lead?"

"We–we didn't explore it," the other boy said, shuffling his feet, "But we did lock it back up–good and tight!"

"Hm," Felix stroked his chin, then waved his hand at Craig, who reluctantly loosened his grip on Clive's neck, "How about it, Dove? What did you find down there?"

Clive stiffened. At first, I thought it must have been because of the question, but I quickly realized he was listening to the same sound that had suddenly reached my own ears. A low creaking, like the branch of a tree about to snap.

"Well?" Felix prodded, then jerked his head to the side, "What's that?"

The creak transmogrified into a terrible groan as one of the sets nearest the stairs pitched forward, crashing into the frame of a cottage next to it.

What followed could only be described as a row of enormous dominos, each set piece succumbing to the weight of the one before it, smashing into the next in a spray of wood splinters and paint, initiating a chain-reaction that surged straight toward us.

With surprised yelps, Felix's gang scattered as a ramshackle barn lurched into the tree their leader had only just been leaning against. Scissor-nose released his grip on me, scrambling out of the tree's path just before it slammed into the floorboards in a cloud of dust. Someone shoved me from behind, knocking me to the floor near the tree's upturned base. Footsteps pounded round me, close enough to stomp me to pieces.

"Amelia!"

I lifted my head, blood rushing, vision speckling, just as Bernard snatched my arm, yanking me to my feet, "Come on!"

"Where's Clive?" I managed over the crash of another tree toppling.

"Gemma's got him. Hurry!"

We took off across the room, dodging toppled sets and several patrollers who shouted and grabbed for us until we hit the stairs. Taking two at a time, I caught sight of Gemma ducking into a recess near the flight of stairs opposite the cellar.

Bernard and I slipped into the shadows after her.

Not a moment too soon.

"Where'd they go?" a patroller cried.

"Idiot, you think they'd hang around?" Felix said, shoving the boy aside, "Shriver, Craig, you three, go left, the rest of you, to the right with me."

Footsteps pounded down the hallway, fading to silence.

I let out a long, long breath. A pale groan mingled with the sound.

"Clive!"

I turned about, squinting. He was jammed in the very back of the alcove next to Gemma, leaning against the wall.

"Amelia? Are you hurt?" he straightened, sweeping the hair from his eyes. That was the least of his worries. Dried blood trickled from his nose to mingle with that sliding from the corner of his cracked lips. His left eye was completely sealed under a dark purple bruise that matched a smaller one on his jaw. Somewhere in the malay his blazer had been lost, leaving him with a torn and tattered shirt. He tried straightening his tie, but clutched his side instead, wincing as he doubled over.

I put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

"I'm fine," he managed, "You're not hurt, are you?"

"Nowhere near as bad as you. We need to get you to the infirmary."

"I'm just glad we got out of there when we did," Gemma said, "Thanks for saving our butts, Trewinkle."

Bernard looked pale but a bit pleased with himself.

"Yes, well, I nearly broke my back toppling that first one. Sorry it took so long."

"It was a brilliant idea," Clive added.

Bernard's eyes narrowed.

"You–what were you _thinking_?"

"That I couldn't stand there, listening at all that, and do nothing," Clive replied. He glanced from Bernard, to Gemma, then to me, regret and doubt conflicted his eyes, "I didn't–I didn't mean for any of you to get caught up in it."

"So, what, then? _We're_ expected to stand there doing nothing, while _you_ get pummeled?" Bernard shook his head, his voice dropping to a low mutter, "Can never mind your own business, can you?"

"Funny," Clive said, brow creasing, "You never would have said that last year. When you were being stuffed in a bookcase."

Bernard's ears turned red, his bushy brows flaring.

"You've lost the keys, too, haven't you? Now what? Our one good lead's been snatched from us."

We were silent, the implications falling over all of us like heavy rain, each nursing aches and wounded pride tempered only by exhaustion.

I wanted to offer some encouragement, some silver lining, but as usual I found myself grasping at air. I couldn't blame Clive for what he'd done. Those boys were safe because of him, at least for now. His courage and willingness to protect others was something I admired deeply.

Still, I felt my own frustration build. Frustration at myself, for how I'd nearly allowed Felix's words to unhinge me, nearly given in to blind panic, and frustration at Clive for getting us into the mess in the first place. Bernard was right. I could never have stood idly while he was being attacked. We should have come up with a plan together. Should have ensured the keys were hidden before we'd left them unattended. Should have discussed things, even briefly, before throwing ourselves into the lion's den. Clive was usually such a careful planner, and yet, other times he scorned those same plans, trampling them under foot in favor of rash action, driven by a ferocity that seemed to grip him by the neck…

"The coast should be clear, now," I said, trying to keep my voice level, "Come on. We need to get you patched up."

"I'm fine," Clive repeated, "I don't think anything's broken. We need to get to Mr. Crimp."

"You're not in any shape –"

Clive cut Bernard off.

"It doesn't matter. Mr. Crimp is waiting for us."

He gazed at us, still clutching his side. His shoulders were square, now, and I could see raw determination in his eyes.

"Then will you let us take you to the infirmary?" I said.

"Yes," Clive replied, "But we need to go, before Felix decides to come back."

"What are we wasting time for, then?" Bernard growled. He squeezed out of the alcove and started down the hall without a second glance.

"He's just tired," Gemma said, "We all are."

I managed a small smile.

"That was a pretty good punch, by the way."

Gemma pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

"Yeah, I'll admit it was lucky. _Felt_ pretty good, too."

"Come on," Clive said, "Better not let him get too far ahead."

"Can you walk?" I asked. There it was again. That standoffish tone of mine.

"I'll manage," he muttered.

Together, the three of us slipped out of the alcove, footsteps soft as snow, and set off after Bernard.

Outside, the night was cold with the dread of impending winter, the September half-moon moon shrouded with clouds. The crickets still chanted in the undergrowth, but their song was deathly soft. I lead the way down the path we had followed Mr. Crimp last summer, to the cottage standing in its cloud of lilac shrubbery.

As we neared the small house, leaves crackling beneath our feet with each step, a coldness crept over me. There was no telltale smoke rising from the chimney. From between the mantle of trees, I could see the windows were dark. Clive must have noticed as well. He broke into a staggered jog, rounding the corner ahead of us.

"Hey, wait!" Gemma cried.

We hurried after him, but when we reached the gravel walk we skidded to a stop.

"Oh no," I gasped.

A gaping black doorway yawned at back at us. The door, itself, lay by the stoop, torn from its hinges. Clive was nowhere to be seen.

"Mr. Crimp!" Gemma cried. She raced up the walk, disappearing into the house.

"Gemma!"

I stumbled after her, gripped by some nightmare terror. No, the nightmare was supposed to be over. I needed to wake up now. I was done with dreams and ready for morning.

Beyond the doorway, the sitting room was dark and empty, save for a bed of smoldering embers in the fire.

"Gemma…? Clive…?"

I didn't need much light to see the place was destroyed. The wood table lay overturned, the cushions on the sofa had been shredded, and glass, soil, and pottery glinted between books with arched spines resting amidst a bed of torn pages.

Something cracked beneath my shoe as I stepped further in. Stooping down, I pulled out a black and white photo from under a shell of broken glass.

Abigail, Peter, and Amos gazed back at me. Two had eyes that were watchful and grave. The eyes of the third sparkled with mischief. One dead, one distant, and the other…

The tread of soft footfalls snagged by ears, accompanied by the shape of a furtive figure. I stiffened, "Clive?

"Amelia."

Clive limped from the kitchen, careful to avoid a lampstand that had been knocked across his path.

"What–what happened?" I asked, hoping the answer was not as obvious and terrifying as it seemed.

He's gone," Clive replied, his voice faint, laced with incredulity. He studied that shards of glass at his feet, then looked up at me again, face as gray and solemn as the photograph I was still holding, "Mr. Crimp is gone." 


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

48

 **Chapter 27**

If there was anything my first tournament had taught me, it was that chess never lost its unpredictability.

My defeat that day, temporary as it had been, had made me realize that no matter how much I knew, how long I studied, how many pieces I captured, or kings I checked, there would always be something new to learn. There would always be surprise. Always shock. Always breathless moments when an opponent would strike unexpectedly, wrenching me towards a different paradigm, an angle never considered, as if the board itself had violently shifted. And then what was there to do but stare, slack-jawed and helpless? Blinking at an empty square that had held a valuable piece mere seconds before.

 _Gone._

My current surroundings, dark and ransacked, combined with Clive's fatal words still rattling in my head, produced a similar effect on me. The king was in check, when all the while I'd thought him safe and secure.

"Gone?" I repeated, out of some dazed necessity to speak.

The word was vague enough to encompass several different possibilities, some more disturbing than others. Images began to crawl through my mind like teeming insects. A lifeless form lying sprawled on the floor of the kitchen or some cramped bedroom, blood seeping across floorboards, over glass shards, reaching Clive's feet…

"Is he–"

My hand stifled the question as nausea constricted my stomach, convulsing bile at the back of my tightening throat.

"Gone as in 'poof'. He's not here."

Gemma stepped out of the shadows from behind Clive, brushing something from her hands. Her voice quavered as she continued, "The whole place is an absolute mess. Even the loo."

A lone floorboard creaked behind us. We stiffened.

"W-who's there?" Gemma called, bending down to pick up a jagged shard of glass, "We're armed."

"Who could it be?"

Clive's torch caught Bernard picking his way across the sitting room. He swore under his breath as he took in the toppled furniture and broken dishes.

"If I had to guess, I'd say there was a skirmish," Clive said, his light moving to trace the destruction, "Or that someone was searching for something…"

"Poor Mr. Crimp," Gemma let the shard of glass fall from her hand, nicking herself in the process. She brought her knuckle to her mouth, her eyes bleary and rimmed nearly as red as the blood tracing her thumb. "This is – this is just awful."

"Let's go back out in the open," I said, my eyes darting about, checking corners and nooks. Mr. Crimp's cottage was pocked with them, each snagging shadows and blending them like a master painter. I expected a figure to hurtle from the shadows at any moment, blocking our escape, "What if someone's still here. Hiding?"

"I don't think so," Clive said, "Gemma and I checked the other rooms. There's not much place to hide. Not anymore."

He had barely spoken when a dull thump came from somewhere beneath our feet. We froze.

"What was that?" Gemma whispered.

"I…I think it came from over there."

I nodded toward the round table lying on its side. The thump sounded again, and it heaved slightly.

The four of us traded glances with each other, sharing snatches of bewilderment and alarm.

Who or what? Friend or foe? Fight or flight?

A series of thumps, more insistent, interrupted our silent exchange, this time accompanied by a muffled voice, too faint to distinguish.

"What if it's Mr. Crimp!" Gemma cried. She scrambled over to the table and, grabbing one of its legs, began to drag it across the floor, "Help me!"

"No!" Bernard hissed, backing towards the doorway, "No, _no_. Let's get out of here while we can!"

"It _is_ possible …" Clive murmured. "Amelia?"

Uneasiness and fervent hope twined within me.

"Whoever it is, we can't just leave them down there. Besides, it's four against one."

With Bernard swearing in the background and a hailstorm of banging rattling the floorboards, Clive and I both grabbed ahold of a leg. With a tremendous heave, the three of us pulled the table aside. Another thump and I saw a thin, square outline appear briefly in the floor.

"It's a trap door!"

The shouting from beneath the floor grew louder, more desperate.

"Hang on."

Clive knelt stiffly, brushing his fingers against the wood until they curled under a small inset. As he carefully lifted the door, it was pushed up from below with a force strong enough to send him and his torch sprawling.

"Clive!"

Before I could reach him, the dark outline of a head emerged from the now exposed hole, lifted by a lanky pair of arms grasping the edge of the floorboards.

"Whew! Thank goodness, I was running out of air down there."

Gemma snatched up Clive's torch, which had rolled toward her feet, and aimed it straight toward the faceless figure.

I gasped as the figure shot an arm over his eyes to block out the light, nearly falling back through the hole in the process.

"Jeremy!?"

That white blond quiff. Those gangly arms and pencil thin neck. That toffee complexion (looking a bit pasty in the light of the torch). That pinstripe waistcoat and silver watch. There was no doubt it was him. But why? How?

When was the last time I had even seen him? My mind plunged through the last several months, before the summer, before the last semester had ended. It had to have been at the masquerade. Jeremy had been checking people in, but I learned soon after he was no mere school employee juggling odd jobs. He was a private investigator Rosen had hired to look into the whole Statue affair. Unfortunately for him, his accusations that night had dropped him in quite a load of hot water. He'd accused Bernard of being behind the Statue and almost gotten in a scrap with Mr. Crimp because of it. Rosen had ordered them both to her office. I'd assumed she'd let him go after that disaster – so, what on earth was he doing here, in Mr. Crimp's home of all places?

"Yes, it's me," he said, still clinging to the edge, "Now, can one of you _please_ help me out of here? There's _things_ down here. Twitchy things."

I wasn't sure if that was such a good idea, but the misery straggling his words seemed enough to move Gemma to pity.

"Alright, but no funny business. You've loads to explain. Trewinkle, block the door so he can't run away."

"What am I, a labrador? I'm not going to _run away_ ," Jeremy replied, clearly offended. He gulped however, when he saw Bernard pick up an iron fire poker and stand squarely in the doorway, weapon at the ready. "Eh-heh, easy now."

As Gemma stepped forward to help pull him out, I made my way over to Clive, who was struggling to stand with the aid of the table.

"Careful."

I placed his arm around my shoulder and slipped my own across his back, easing him to his feet.

"Thanks."

His smile was grateful, but the dull glassy look in his eyes told me he was still in a great deal of pain. In the faint light, his face appeared pale as wax, stark in contrast with the patchwork of darker bruises and dried blood. I winced as I recalled Felix's heavy shoe lodged into his ribs. A nasty reward for rescuing two first-years from being pressed into the new Head Boy's gang. We'd been stupid to open the hatch beneath the cellar our first night back; should've known Felix might use the cellar for his own purposes as his gang hunted down anyone who ignored the newly imposed curfew. My anger flared as I recalled how quickly the two boys they'd apprehended had been forgotten when we'd been forced to reveal ourselves. It seemed everything had worked in Felix's favor and, drunk as he was on his freshly appointed powers, he'd wasted not a moment of his opportunity to remind the four of us that he ran Dreycott now. My face burned as I thought of how he had toyed with my braid, taunted Gemma, pocketed our four keys, stood gloating over Clive, poised to deliver yet another blow to his body.

A cold rush of anguish flooded my heart, extinguishing my anger like a smothered candle. Clive had suffered the worst out of the four of us. What if he had broken or punctured something? As worried as I was for Mr. Crimp, I needed to get him inside before he collapsed.

"How are you holding up?" I asked, hoping he'd give me further reason to insist I take him to the infirmary. I tried keeping the concern from my voice, my hands from shaking as I steadied him. I needed to be the strong one now, to insist he go inside. My own tumbling emotions would only hinder that goal. I had to keep them behind a wall of ice, let logic and facts persuade him.

"I'll manage," he muttered.

A rather infuriating reply, but his eyes had already fixed on Jeremy, who had also made it to his feet and was now dusting off his trousers. Clive wanted answers, as did I, and I knew he wouldn't let himself be taken anywhere until he was satisfied he had a handle on the situation.

"You four came in the nick of time, you know," Jeremy said, "I was just about to die from asphyxiation."

"What are you doing here?" Bernard asked. He leveled his poker at Jeremy's heart, "Where's Mr. Crimp?"

"Yeah!" Gemma said, smacking Clive's torch threateningly into her palm. The light bounced about like an erratic firefly. "Where is he? And what in Olympus were you doing down there?"

"And don't even think about lying," I added, glad to direct my frustration elsewhere, "I'm a seasoned chess-player, so I've learnt how to pay attention to the smallest details."

This might have been a bit of an exaggeration, to say nothing of boastful, but it was the most intimidating thing I could think to say. And we needed a bit of intimidation. Clive could barely stand, I was incapacitated by my attempt to support him, and Gemma's threatening air was offset by the glittery kitten band-aid on her knee. Bernard had his poker, anyway, but he needed to be at least a foot taller.

Despite all this, Jeremy swallowed loudly as he glanced between the four of us, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Clive and I took a few unsteady steps closer, boxing him in.

A mistake, apparently. Jeremy's eyebrows jumped when he saw Clive's battered face and his fearful expression faded.

"And what happened to you, skippy?"

"Start talking or everyone will be asking _you_ that question," Clive replied coolly.

I knew it was a hollow threat, but Jeremy shrank back a bit nonetheless, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"I can explain, I swear. You see, Mr. Crimp invited me to the meeting tonight, as well."

"Why would he invite you?" Bernard snapped, "Why are you even at Dreycott? Didn't Rosen fire you?"

I knew he must still be livid about the masquerade, how Jeremy had dragged him up on stage and accused without a shred of real evidence.

"No!" Jeremy countered, "I mean yes, she was going to. But! But she decided to give me a second chance. Don't ask me why. She was furious about what happened, but – but after she calmed down a bit, we got to talking and she allowed me to continue investigating. Under a few conditions."

"But how does Mr. Crimp tie into all this?" Clive asked.

Jeremy managed a weak chuckle.

"You know, you really don't look so good. Why don't we all go inside and discuss this over a nice pot of tea, eh?"

"Answer the question," Bernard growled through gritted teeth.

"Fine," Jeremy fiddled with his watch, 'I – well, you see, Mr. Crimp and I. We've been working together these past few months."

He caught the skepticism in our eyes and held up his hands again. "I know! I know! We don't get along. And we certainly aren't friends. But that was one of the Professor's conditions. I was to enlist Mr. Crimp's aid in my investigation. _Hmph_ , though if you ask me, it always seemed like _he_ fancied himself the one in charge and I was just his sidekick or something."

"So, then, what? You decided to ravage his house in revenge?" Bernard asked.

"No! Of course not!"

"Then what happened!?" Gemma cried.

Jeremy's shoulders sagged, his eyes settling on the floor. He heaved an enormous sigh.

"We were waiting for the four of you to show up," he began quietly, "A little after nine, we heard voices and footsteps coming towards the house. I took a quick peek out the front door, but it…it wasn't any of you."

"Who was it?" I asked.

"A group of men. Dressed in dark clothing. Before I quite knew what was happening, Mr. Crimp shoved me down through that trapdoor and told me not to make a sound or he'd kill me," Jeremy shrugged, "He's always threatening my life. Don't worry, I'm used to it. Anyway, the men came into the house. I heard them talking to Mr. Crimp, very quietly, but then there were all sorts of banging and shouting and crashing. I had no idea what was going on. And then everything went silent."

He paused, and the shadows under his eyes seemed to grow deeper, "I couldn't get out, but…but I knew. They'd taken him. Or…or else…"

He trailed away, shaking his head.

"So…so he's been kidnapped?" Gemma said, "Shouldn't we call the police!?"

"I'm – I'm not so sure that would do any good," Jeremy muttered.

Clive picked up on the words immediately, eyes burning with new intensity.

"So, you know who these men were?"

Jeremy hesitated.

"Well…it's possib – possibly."

"Possibly?" Bernard said, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's complicated," Jeremy said. He tugged at his waistcoat, a bit of that former haughtiness returning to his demeanor. "You see, over the summer I've been doing some investigative work beyond the school. Digging up some shady soil on a man named John Harrier. He's –"

"One of the school's primary benefactors," Clive cut in, "And quite the burgeoning magnate. Mining, bottling, manufacturing, his holdings have been steadily increasing for years."

"Well," Jeremy huffed, "I'm sure you didn't know that –"

"He might be blackmailing the Professor?" I said, "Or bribing her?"

"In any case," Clive went on, "He seems to be manipulating her in some capacity."

" _Hmph._ I guess Mr. Crimp was right about you four. Too sharp for your own good," Jeremy folded his arms, "But are you aware of Mr. Harrier's alleged criminal connections?"

"Criminal?" Gemma said, eyes glinting with morbid fascination, "Is he in the mafia or something?"

"Or something," Jeremy smirked, "According to my sources, there is a possible link between Mr. Harrier and the Blue Aster."

"The Blue Aster?"

The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. Clive was already flipping through his notebook. After a few seconds of scanning, he looked up.

"Of course, the Blue Aster. It was mentioned in that article that Cathy gave you, Amelia. On Hyacinth's death?"

"Oh! What did it say?"

"Apparently, the Dreycotts were rumored to have connections to the Blue Aster, as well."

Gemma traced the rim of her glasses.

"But who, or what, are the Blue Aster?"

"Bit of a myth always circulating amongst us P.I.s," Jeremy chipped in, "And the Met, or so I've heard. No incriminating evidence related to the group has ever been found. Yet the rumors persist. London's criminal underbelly is supposedly ruled by an elite syndicate, a phantom organization, involved in every shade of nefarious activity with tendrils stretching towards some very powerful places – Scotland Yard, Parliament…"

He shook his head. "Apparently, even members know very little about the organization's inner-workings. All communication is concealed behind layers of codes, and encryptions, and riddles."

"So, if our Mr. Harrier has connections to this group," Gemma said, "Does that mean they're behind everything here at Dreycott? The Statue? And – and now they've captured Mr. Crimp!"

"We can't say for certain just yet, Gemma," Clive countered, "The question remains, why would the Blue Aster be so involved here? There _is_ a connection, but the last Dreycott died quite a while ago. What would they stand to gain from fabricating the Statue?"

"I don't know," Jeremy replied, "But we'd all better hope they're not involved, whatever the reason. If they've a stranglehold on this school, well, there's not much any of us can do. Nor the police."

"All speculation," Bernard said, "Rumors. Hearsay. You said so yourself, this group might not even exist. Where's your evidence?"

"It makes sense, though," I said, thinking out-loud, "Why the story of the Statue hasn't escaped to the press. Why the police have never gotten involved. If the Blue Aster is pulling strings here, they'd be more than capable of covering things up, wouldn't they?"

"Listen to yourself, Amelia," Bernard crossed his arms, glaring at the four of us, "Why should we believe anything he says?"

He turned to Jeremy.

"You've given us absolutely no reason to trust you. Not only that, but I find it quite odd you're suddenly so eager to share all this information with 'four children' as you're so keen on calling us."

Bernard had a point. It seemed unlikely that Jeremy had anything to do with Mr. Crimp's disappearance, seeing as he was trapped in a hole at the time. Still. He could have ulterior motives that might interfere with our own investigation. And I wasn't quite as taken with his Blue Aster theory as my words had suggested. Yes, the theory made sense, but it was only that. A theory. We needed something more substantial to go on.

Jeremy crossed his own arms.

"No reason to trust me? I've been helping Mr. Crimp! He trusts me…in his own sort of way…" He stuck a hand inside his waistcoat and pulled out several folded sheets of paper, yellowed and brittle with age. "Look. This is for you. From Mr. Crimp."

I took the papers from Jeremy, but I didn't unfold them.

"What is this?"

"A letter. Earlier today, Mr. Crimp told me he knew he was being watched. He said if anything were to happen to him, that I was to give you this, and to tell you, _ahem_ , and I quote, 'the devil's labyrinth holds the answers we need'," Jeremy's shoulders slumped again, "I didn't think much of it at the time. I'd nearly forgotten about the whole thing, actually, but now I wonder if he knew this was going to happen."

As he spoke, I unfolded the papers, which crackled like tinder-dry fire, and smoothed them flat. My heart quickened as I picked through the delicate ink-blotched words. I recognized the hand-writing. And the addressee…

"What is it?" Clive asked, straining to see.

"A letter."

The word felt small and shivery in my mouth. Not just any letter.

I cleared my throat and began to read aloud:

 _Peter,_

 _I'll say it again._ Peter _. How wonderful it is to print your name. No more pseudonyms, Peter. It was fun at first, like we were sharing some sort of secret. But we know it's never been one. Not from my grandfather (he started this all in the first place, didn't he?) Not from your parents. Let them find this letter if they're so eager to pry into your correspondence. Let them read it. What can they do to you that they haven't already done?_

 _I am not afraid of your father and you shouldn't be, either. We're both old enough now to make our own decisions. He's already had his chances in life and he's made all the wrong ones, hasn't he? Why should we be the same?_

 _So, stand up to him. For yourself. And for Marcy. I'm can't tell you how sorry I am to hear about her. She was doing so well summer term. I remember we went to help Amos' father a few days before classes ended. She was down on her hands and knees, digging in the dirt like the happiest little mole surrounded by poppies and larkspur, a butterfly caught in her hair. She has so much strength and I know she'll pull through this. And we'll all be back at Dreycott together again, the four of us._

 _Until then, I'm going to come visit you both. I'll climb through your window if I must! And when I get there we can do some more research together. I feel as if we're so close to finding that final key. So close I can wrap my fingers round it, slot it in, and open the door._

 _I dream about it. Going through that door. The answer to all the questions lies there, doesn't it? The animosity between our families, the Dreycott curse, the truth about Araneae and the tragedy that happened so many years ago, why the school is wound with puzzles and passageways…_

 _The devil's labyrinth. I know it sounds silly to ask after all this time, but do you really think it exists? I tried asking grandfather about it again, but he changed the subject almost immediately. Amos has been trying to get more information out of his own father, but so far, he hasn't been having any luck._

 _I hope it's real. No, I know it's real. And if we can just find our way in, everything will become clear. I want the truth in the open air and sunlight where it can breathe. That's where it belongs, no matter how frightening. It shouldn't be locked away, shouldn't be allowed to rot and suffocate in the dark._

 _But you mentioned something else being in the labyrinth. Something that could help Marcy? What did you mean by that?_

 _Grandfather is calling me now and he sounds most insistent. Please write back as soon as you can._

 _Abigail_

The five of us remained silent, absorbing the words. So much to take in…but what stood out to me the most was the mention of a name. One Jeremy had only just spoken. One I had seen deep underground, etched in a riddle only hours before.

 _Ye who seek passage to the devil's labyrinth enter her name._

"The devil's labyrinth holds the answers we need," I repeated, the words so soft they barely passed my lips.

"Well?" Jeremy said, "You see? Why would Mr. Crimp give this very important letter to me unless he trusted me?"

"Just moment," I said, "Did you read the letter?"

"Of course," Jeremy frowned, "It's…ah…a very valuable clue."

"Oh, so you know that Professor Rosen wrote it? To Peter Dreycott? And that they were friends with Amos Crimp? And that they were trying to uncover the school's mysteries, themselves, even before the Statue ever showed up?"

Jeremy's open mouth and furious blinking eyes told me all I needed to know.

"Wait? What? What are you going on about? Look, all I know is Mr. Crimp wanted you to have it."

"Or you snitched it to earn our trust," Bernard countered.

"I don't think so," I said, smiling despite myself, "Jeremy doesn't seem to know anything about the contents of the letter. So, there's no reason for him to think it useful to us unless Mr. Crimp _did_ give it to him. Not to mention the message from Mr. Crimp. Mr. Crimp knew we were opening the black hatch. It makes sense he would mention something in connection with it. Jeremy, on the other hand, doesn't seem to know anything about the hatch."

"Brilliant," Clive said.

"I'm right here, you know," Jeremy grumbled.

Bernard did not look impressed in the slightest.

"It still doesn't explain why you're suddenly so eager to involve us in your investigation."

Jeremy threw up his hands.

"You are a bothersome child, aren't you? Mr. Crimp told me about how clever you all are. How you know more about what's going on here than everyone else combined. And now…with him gone…."

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth "As _searingly_ painful as it is to admit it, I… I need your help."

The words faded into a silence heavy with scrutiny. I'd never thought much of Jeremy, but I had to admit there was something genuine about the way he spoke – something I hadn't heard before. He turned to Bernard, sighing.

"Look. I know I've made some mistakes. And I'm sorry about what happened at the masquerade. It was wrong of me to accuse you like that."

Bernard wouldn't respond, expression masked by his furrowed brow.

"But let's start fresh, shall we?"

Jeremy stuck out a hand, although no one bothered to take it. "Jeremy Bloom, London's premier private investigator.

"Jeremy Bloom…?" Clive cocked his head, "Why does that sound familiar?"

"You ever heard of the Geswald Robberies?" Jeremy asked, his chest puffing out just a bit.

"I… might have seen something on them in the papers."

"That was me. I cracked that case like a china teacup, my very first. The assigned detective-inspector was utterly baffled," I saw a bit of fiendish glee alight in Jeremy's eyes, "Four banks hit in two days. No leads. I calculated where they would strike next, infiltrated their gang, and got them fighting amongst themselves so I could smuggle out the perfect bit of evidence. Then, oh, you have to hear the part about the lorry chase and the Scottish vagabond."

"Er, I don't think we have time for all that," I said.

"Oh. Right. Another time. Anyway, after solving that case, I had all sorts of inquiries flooding my office. But I decided to take the most intriguing one of all. The mystery of the living statue…"

Jeremy slumped again, so much I thought he was going to melt into the floor.

"And now everything's a shambles. I've hit a dead end," he straightened, drawing in a heavy breath through his nostrils, "But I've got to do this. I've got to solve this case. I've got to show them. I'm just as capable as _he_ is…"

"Who?" Gemma asked.

Jeremy jumped.

"N-no one. None of your business. Anyway, I'll say it again. We should work together. What have we got to lose?"

He stood, arms folded, waiting for an answer.

Gemma spoke first.

"I'm in. I mean, we might as well, since we're both trying to solve the same mystery."

I bit my lip, wanting to add something, but not knowing quite what. My own feelings were mixed. I didn't feel as skeptical about Jeremy as Bernard did, but I still wasn't sure how reliable an ally he would be. He was flighty, for one thing. Flighty and arrogant. It wasn't a very promising combination.

"How about we think on it," Clive said, "Right now we should be looking for clues."

I glanced at him with a frown. Beneath his assertive words, his tone was strained. He leant on me heavily.

"No," I said, "It's time to go inside. We can come back tomorrow, when you're feeling better."

Clive looked ready to protest, but Jeremy held up a hand.

"She's right," he said, "You look like you belong in a casket. I'll stay here and have a look around. You four should get to bed."

Despite my conflicted thoughts, I felt a warm shudder of weary gratitude. Maybe it was because I was nearly dead on my feet, but it felt so good to have an adult step in, to take charge, even if it was only Jeremy.

"But Mr. Crimp…" Gemma said.

"There's not much we can do for him, now," Bernard replied.

"He's a tough old blighter," Jeremy said, feigning a weak smile, "If anyone can handle the Blue Aster, he can. Anyway, I do have a personal contact in Scotland Yard. Trustworthy, if not a little big for his britches. He usually works late, so I'll phone him tonight, see if he can't be of any assistance."

It wasn't much of a reassurance, but Bernard was right. We were all exhausted and in no shape to do anything for Mr. Crimp.

"We can talk to Professor Rosen, tomorrow," I said, "Tell her what's happened."

"Right," Jeremy said, though I could see his confidence fading.

Bernard was already heading out the door. Gemma went next, glancing back at Jeremy, while I came last, supporting Clive.

"Be careful out there, kids," Jeremy said.

"We will," I managed.

It was a long and weary walk back to the school. Bernard stayed far ahead of the rest of us, stiff and silent. I wondered if he was still angry or if he was simply keeping an ear and eye open for any patrollers. Oddly enough, we saw not a glint of a silver sash anywhere in sight.

The answer revealed itself when were half-way to the infirmary. Passing near the patroller's lounge, I caught muffled snatches of laughter and shouts, all underscored by the throb of music far too modern for Dreycott's gray halls.

A Patrol party and I wasn't invited. Pity.

When we reached the infirmary, Gemma went to wake Mrs. Fledgle, while I helped Clive sit down on the edge of the nearest cot.

The nurse's eyes were wide as she followed Gemma from her adjacent quarters, tying the sash of a robe round her long white nightgown. They quickly narrowed when she caught sight of Clive. I could almost see the doctor part of her brain begin to turn, assessing his injuries, running through needed supplies. Without a single question, she flicked on the lights and rolled up her sleeves.

"Out," she nodded toward the door where Bernard stood waiting, "You can visit him tomorrow. Get to bed before I call the Patrol on the lot of you."

"But–"

"Mrs. Fledgle–" Gemma cut in.

Mrs. Fledgle placed a firm hand on both of our shoulders, steering us out into the hall before we could manage another word. I caught one last glimpse of Clive, looking after us with concern, before she shut the door in our faces.

 _Click!_

There was a finality in the sound, signaling the end of the night's adventures. The three of us glanced to one another in the light that slipped through the bottom of the door, weighing each other's exhaustion, listening to the faint pulse of music coming from the lounge. It seemed we were all waiting for someone else to speak. No one did. Finally, with drooping heads and dragging feet, we returned to the dorms in silence, heading our separate ways without so much as a feeble "good night".

My room looked even more unfamiliar in the darkness than it had earlier. Cramped as Mr. Crimp's cottage. I slipped off my shoes, my jacket, the ribbons in my hair. Let them all drop onto the floor. Sank into my bed. Closed my eyes. Felt the force of gravity tangible as a pillar of stone. Listened to the hawthorne scratching.

The only consolation was the thought of sleep. Oblivion, black and cold and sweet as syrup. Instead, I tossed and turned as the hours wore on, the events of the day returning in distorted fashion, twisting together like a dark brier.

The train ride to London contorted into Felix leering over me, the stench of his breath on my neck thickening to the stench of rubbish as I crawled through a cramped tunnel that contorted to granddad, feverish in bed, battered and bruised. He morphed into Clive, then my mother, then Mr. Crimp in his cottage lying amongst his scattered possessions, then Clive again, leaning so heavily against me he felt ready to topple over, hands cold, barely breathing, the sound of his coughing and choking blooming red like bloodstains on a white cloth.

Frustration and anger hardened my resolve. I wouldn't let him go. Not this time. I wouldn't leave. Not until we'd seen this through. I wouldn't let him fall.

As the words formed, the white became a room. Someone lay at the center, an elderly man. Still. His clothes, his skin, his hair. All white, translucent almost, except for a bit of walnut wood over his heart, covered with his hand. _Mr. Crimp_ , I thought, although the face, so expressionless, was hard to distinguish. _Mr. Crimp. They've taken him and now he's dead._

I turned and started to walk, farther and farther away.

 _Why didn't you tell us sooner? Why didn't you tell us you were in danger? We could have helped you! You knew,_ you knew _, and now you're gone. How could you leave us alone?_

 _Leave me alone?_

 _You said you'd take care of me, but you're just like_ them _._

 _Thud. Thud._

I awoke with a sharp intake of air, nearly toppling out of bed.

"Amy?"

Watery light leaked through the window. The clock on my nightstand stood patient and sane. I sat up, reading it carefully, mind sharpening into focus with each tick. Nearly seven. My first class of the morning was still an hour away. Good. I'd have time to check on Clive first.

"Coming," I managed.

Quickly dressing in fresh clothes, I opened the door to find Ursula waiting. Her curls drooped, lacking their usual buoyant spring.

"There you are!" she said, "You just missed Juliet's big speech."

"Thank goodness for that," I said, tugging my foot into my shoe, "Did she notice?"

"It's possible, though she might've been too pleased with herself to pay much attention."

I bent down to buckle my other shoe.

"I bet Vivian was ready to strangle her."

"Actually, Vivian wasn't there, either," Ursula's frown deepened, "I'm really worried about her. She won't come out of her room. She won't talk to me. It's like Juliet all over again."

"I'm sure it's all quite a shock."

"Maybe worse. I caught her coming out of the lavatory last night and it looked like she had been crying."

I straightened.

"Vivian? Crying?"

"Yeah…honestly, I think she's more upset about the Professor than Juliet."

"What do you mean?"

"Well…" Ursula glanced down, "Viv really cares for the Professor."

True. Vivian had always been Professor Rosen's biggest supporter. At times her adoration seemed nearly worshipful.

"The Professor's been so kind to her," Ursula sighed, "Just between you and me, Viv's parents don't pay much attention to her. She's been attending boarding schools since she was five. And I think she felt like…like maybe she'd finally found a home here. Even after she had that falling out with Cathy. The Professor helped her through that, too."

I was surprised to find myself feeling a twinge of cautious sympathy.

"She must feel like the Professor's abandoned her after last night…"

The memory of Vivian standing up in her seat crackled through my mind, shock and betrayal flashing in her eyes as she watched the Professor welcome Felix and Juliet, _her replacement,_ up on stage.

"Yeah, I know. But talking of the Professor, she wants to speak with you."

I stopped tugging at my sock.

"What?"

"Er, I'm not quite sure why, but it may have something to do with last night?"

Unease clenched my stomach.

"All right. I'll-I'll head over there."

"I heard what happened to Clive," Ursula expression grew graver than I'd ever seen it. She put a gentle hand on my shoulder, "I'm so sorry. But what were you doing down in the cellar?"

"I'll explain later. I shouldn't keep the Professor waiting."

I slipped past her and took off down the hall before she could ask any more questions.

By the time I reached the Professor's office, my legs had turned to gelatin. I assumed the headmistress had found out about Mr. Crimp and wanted to assess the situation and question everyone involved. She was probably beside herself with worry. Mr. Crimp was her old friend, after all. This should have been reassuring to me, that the problem was in the Professor's hands, I felt a terrible dread, instead. With Mr. Harrier lurking always in the background, how much could she really do? What if Mr. Crimp had been taken to further place the Professor under his hold?

"Ah, Miss Ruth," Mrs. Brickle said as I came in, busy with her type-writer, as usual, "Just in time. Professor Rosen is waiting."

She wasn't the only one. Beyond the waiting room, Gemma and Bernard sat in stiff-backed chairs facing the Professor's desk, while Jeremy stood near her side, glancing continuously out the window as if he were considering a leap.

"Amelia," Professor Rosen didn't bother forcing a smile. She gestured to a third chair, "Have a seat."

Bernard and Gemma muttered good mornings as I sat down. The shadows rimming their eyes provided the only bit of sickly softness to expressions otherwise composed of hard lines and bent angles. I wondered what sort of nightmares had kept them company last night.

The Professor folded her hands. If she had looked tired on stage last night, she looked even worse face to face. Every line that etched her countenance had deepened, heavily marking the parameters of her firmly-set mouth and eyes. When she spoke, her words were not so much professional, as imperious.

"I've been informed by Mr. Bloom about the events of last night. That you four were out past curfew?"

Jeremy opened his mouth to object, but the Professor held up a hand.

"It's true," I said, "But Professor. Mr. Crimp. He's gone. His cottage is ransacked. We-we were supposed to meet last night – "

The Professor held up her hand again.

"I am aware of the situation. In fact…regretfully…I had a hand in it."

Gemma leapt out of her chair.

"You WHAT!?"

"Sit down, Miss Mudget," the Professor said, barely glancing in her direction

Gemma sank down into her seat, anger and bewilderment burning off the bleariness in her eyes.

"Mr. Crimp's employment has been terminated," the Professor continued, "I informed him yesterday evening. An abrupt, but necessary decision. One that was…quite upsetting to him."

She paused, brow knitting, measuring her next words carefully, "You should know his destructive temper is one of the reasons I've decided to let him go. It's been an escalating problem for many years now, compounded by his habit of frequent inebriation. I'm grateful it was only his cottage that was targeted this time."

Silence smothered the office as the three of us floundered with her words.

Mr. Crimp fired? But how did that explain – My eyes caught Jeremy's own, creased with equal parts confusion and shock.

"You can't be serious!" Gemma sputtered, "Then – where is he?"

"Miss Mudget, contain yourself."

A wince darkened the Professor's eyes, the set of her mouth, "And I trust you three to keep this information confidential. I only tell you to reassure you that no harm has come to Mr. Crimp, as you seem to assume."

Reassure me? Her words had done nothing but fuel the apprehension building like a hurricane within me, a million questions spiraling out of control. Was there any truth to her words? Or were they all lies? But why? What was her goal? And did she really think we'd believe her so easily? The last time I'd spoken with the Professor in her office she'd told me I could trust Mr. Crimp. And now she claimed to have fired him, accused him of destroying his own cottage… The dissonance was palpable.

"That can't be right," I murmured, light-headed.

"I'm afraid, so, Miss Ruth," Professor Rosen replied, though her eyes would not meet mine, "As for where Mr. Crimp has gone, he has several frequent haunts around London, a pub here, a garden there. I am certain he will be return once he has time to fully take in the news."

"But Professor –" Jeremy objected, "I was there with him last night. He never –"

"Mr. Bloom, I am grateful that you have brought the matter to my attention, but please know the situation is well in hand."

"Well in hand?" Bernard leveled the words with calm precision as he stood from his chair. "Last night one of your pupils, _my friend_ , was beaten to near unconsciousness by a gang whom you've delegated authority, an incident you've failed to even acknowledge thus far, while one of your employees destroyed his entire house in a fit of rage? Is that 'well in hand'?"

The Professor blinked in shock, open-mouthed, gazing up at Bernard glaring down at her.

"Professor, please. We want to help," Gemma said, "We know you would never choose Felix to be Head Boy. And we know you've been getting letters, too – "

"This meeting is over."

The Professor stood, her chair scraping sharply against the floor, "The four of you will go to your classes immediately. We will discuss your punishment for breaking curfew later."

"Professor –"

I didn't know what to say. The Professor's gray eyes, usually placid as a rain-quiet day, had grown stormy, layered with anger and fear. Her arms trembled by her sides.

"Let's go," Gemma stood up from her own chair and turned on her heel, "We can figure this out on our own."

"I'm—I'm not a pupil," Jeremy muttered, trailing after her and Bernard.

I turned to follow the three of them, then hesitated, glancing back at the Professor.

"Professor…"

She wasn't watching me, nor Bernard or Jeremy. She was watching Gemma, expression now veiled, but fragile, like a sliver of moonlight sliding out from a bank of clouds, swathed in longing and concern that softened the anger.

My eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Professor?"

She started, then her gaze settled fully on me.

"I want you to hand in your sash, Amelia. By the end of the day. Turn it over to Juliet."

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I wasn't upset. Not even confused. Merely tired. All this time, inviting me into her inner circle, entrusting me with delivering that letter to Mr. Trewinkle, giving me the final key to opening the hatch, only to set me aside without so much as an explanation. For once, I didn't care if she was being manipulated. I was tired of her secrets. Tired of her contradictions. Tired of the way she hid and deflected and evaded and concealed. Tired of how she ran the school – pretending everything was orderly when it was clenched in the jaws of chaos. Tired of how defeated and frightened she looked. What had happened to the spirited girl, preserved only in letters now it seemed, who wanted to bring the truth out into the sunlight? Surely there was some way she could fight back to protect her school? Her pupils?

"You told me I could trust, Mr. Crimp," I said quietly, glaring at her with an intensity I had never dared before, "And that's what I'm going to do."

Before she could respond, I wheeled around and left the office.

Gemma, Bernard, and Jeremy were waiting for me out in the corridor.

"I can't believe her!" Gemma said, splotches of pink marking her cheeks, "She didn't even seem to care about what happened to Clive! And all those lies about Mr. Crimp!"

"I suppose it's possible she fired him," Jeremy admitted, "But he never mentioned it to me last night. And, of course, I know for a fact he didn't wreck his house over it, either."

First, Vivian. Then, Mr. Crimp. Now me. Why was the Professor distancing herself even farther from the few people she seemed to trust? I could think of only one reason.

"Maybe she had no choice," I said, "Telling us what she did. Or have we all forgotten?"

I wasn't trying to defend her, merely pinpoint the most logical explanation. Whatever sympathy I had for the Professor had vanished. We were being threatened, too, yet that wasn't going to stop us from working toward exposing the lies that held the school captive. Last night had proven that. But what was the Professor doing? Hiding in her office, as usual. Complying with every demand. True, I didn't know what Mr. Harrier was holding over her head, but couldn't she at least find a way to be honest with us? She knew what we were trying to do. Knew we'd made progress. If only she'd let us help her…

"Yes…Our beloved Mr. Harrier…"

I blinked, surprised at Jeremy's tone. His serious expression had melted to one of smug delight.

"What's with you?" Bernard asked, glowering enough to remind Jeremy they were still far from resting on friendly terms.

"I got a look at the calendar on her wall," Jeremy rubbed his hands together, "She has a meeting with Mr. Harrier at the end of the week."

"Wonderful," Bernard muttered.

"It is. Because I'm going to intercept the letter he gives her," Jeremy took out a planner as he strode ahead of us, scribbling in its pages "And I've already got the makings of a brilliant plan in mind. I'll need the four of you to help, of course. It's time we found out exactly who, or what, we're up against."

Before any of us could respond, he was gone, striding to round the corner ahead with a fiendish chuckle.

"I wonder if he spoke to his Scotland Yard contact," I said.

" _Pfft_. Scotland Yard contact," Bernard replied.

"Oh, stop it," Gemma tossed her hair over her shoulder, "I trust him. More than the Professor, anyway."

"It would be helpful if we could get our hands on one of those letters," I said, "But in the meantime…"

I fell silent before realizing I was waiting for Clive to chip in with a plan for our next move. How thoroughly I'd come to rely on his leadership and quick-thinking. Now, he was gone, and Gemma and Bernard were both watching me. Waiting.

I felt my face grow hot. I was good at analyzing plans, not so good at making them, apart from the chessboard. "Well…We need to open the door past the tunnel. But we've lost the keys."

"We'll just have to get them back," Gemma said, cracking her knuckles, "Find out where Felix is keeping them and plan a grand heist."

"We need to learn more about the devil's labyrinth, too," I said, "The more we know the more likely we'll be able to solve that riddle."

"But how?" Bernard crossed his arms, "We've exhausted our resources. Amos Crimp is missing, we've found everything in the library there is to find, and no one else at this school knows anything."

"That's not necessarily true," I said, a sprout of a plan beginning to bud in my mind, "There might be someone…"

I wasn't sure if she would talk, but now that Felix and Juliet were in charge, perhaps she would be more willing.

"Fine. You talk to this person. In the meantime, I'd like to take a closer look at those letters if you don't mind."

I glanced at Bernard, surprised.

"Why?"

"I have a feeling that Mr. Crimp's been responsible for ensuring that not only the last one, but all three of the letters got into your hands. I'd like to analyze them, see if I can't pick out anything we missed."

"Good idea."

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out a manila folder containing the three letters, which I'd taken to carrying around with me, just in case. I wanted to look over them again, myself, especially the latest one, but that could wait. Bernard was a careful reader and I knew if anyone could glean some new insight, he could.

"I'd like to do some spying, myself," Gemma said, as Bernard flipped through the folder, "Find out where Felix's keeping those keys. Bother! But I guess it's time for class."

We had turned another corner and reached a bustling corridor lined with classrooms quickly filling up.

"I don't have class until eight," I said, glancing at a nearby clock. Nearly seven-thirty, "I think I'll go check on Clive. See if he has any other ideas."

"Sounds good," Gemma said, "Gosh, I hope he's feeling okay…maybe I should make him a get-well card."

"A card demanding someone feel better," Bernard grumbled, "That should help."

Waving goodbye to the two, I continued down the corridor. Instead of going straight to the infirmary, however, I stopped by the Red Room, to see if I couldn't order a cup of Earl Grey for Clive with the bit of pocket money I always carried on hand.

The room's small café smelled so good I ended up ordering some for myself before realizing what a trick it was going to be getting two cups nearly filled to the brim all the way up to the infirmary.

My worry was mostly unfounded. After several carefully managed turns and two flights of stairs, I reached the door to the infirmary with most of the tea intact.

I paused. It was possible Clive had already been released. On the other hand, he hadn't been present at Professor Rosen's meeting, so perhaps it was safe to assume he was still in Mrs. Fledgle's care.

With this thought, I used my elbow to push down on the door's handle and slipped inside. The place lay quiet and gray, drowsy with the scent of cleaning solution and starched sheets. Pale light pressed in through the high windows in translucent shafts while a vagrant moth fluttered about the ceiling's arched beams. The door to Mrs. Fledgle's office was closed, so I assumed she was beyond. Opposite, the row of cots sat empty and white as blank canvases, all except the one at the very end, where Clive lay, sound asleep.

I made my way across the room, soft and silent, deciding to leave his tea and come back later. When I reached his cot, however, I paused again.

I was relieved to see the swelling around his eye and jaw had gone down. The blood had been cleaned from his face, as well, and his tattered clothes had been switched out for pajamas (his collar popped on one side, naturally). His left hand, loosely clutching his blanket, was wrapped with a bandage, while his right clasped his open notebook and pen to his chest, as if he had been in the midst of scribbling madly when he'd fallen asleep.

His fingers still twitched fitfully about the pen. Stepping closer, I realized his features were strained, set rigid with pain and brushed with a feverish flush.

I set the tea on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of his cot. Brushing aside his matted bangs, I placed the back of my hand against his forehead. As I'd suspected, his skin felt clammy and hot.

The sensation passed to me as guilt, a different sort of fever, but potent nonetheless, coalescing with shame and frustration until my own thoughts flared febrile with infected memories of last night.

Surrounded by Felix's gang…struggling to free myself…the taunts and jeers and threats…that look in Felix's eyes…that the four of us were disposable, that he could use and break us however he wanted, and no one would stop him…Clive crumpled to the floor…

I took his hand, if only to reassure myself. That he was here. That he was safe even as my mind raised again and again every blow to his body. Every gasp. Sounds and sights and smells I felt I would never be rid of, eating at the corners of my vision, darkening the room.

" _Stop! Leave them alone!"_

I still wanted to be angry with him, even as I chided myself for not coming to his rescue sooner. Of how I had stood there, doing nothing, while he was outnumbered and attacked. How even after I had worked up the nerve, I had been useless. No different than that very first night when I'd been knocked to the ground, unable to even pull myself to my feet.

I wanted to stay. I wanted to fight. That resolve had bolstered me when I'd nearly faltered before Felix. But now the night was over, and all that bravery had diffused with morning. I wasn't brave or strong. Only tired and anxious and small and cold as I'd always been.

"…melia?"

The light returned at the sound of the rusty voice. Clive was stirring, his eyelids flickering as he tried to focus on me with sleep-bleary eyes.

I drew in a deep breath, composing myself, blinking back tears I realized had crept to the corners of my eyes.

"Still not up yet, I see," I said scornfully, but my grip on his hand tightened.

"Can't," he said ruefully, "…Fledgle says…running a fever… wants to keep an eye on me. Just for the day."

"Good job I brought you some tea, then."

He perked up, struggling into a sitting position.

"Ah, all better I see."

I handed him his tea. Took up my own. The first sip warmed me down to my toes. Before I took another, I glanced over the rim and realized Clive was still studying his, the steam bringing out further the flush on his cheeks.

"Clive?"

His eyes shifted to me, then to my hand still in his.

"Amelia, about last night. It's all my fault and—and I'll never forgive myself for putting you through that…I couldn't protect – "

His voice faltered into silence.

I glanced away.

"Drink your tea," I said, "And don't worry about it. It's over. And, really, it's as much my fault as yours."

It was over, yes. But I knew it wouldn't leave either of us for a long time.

"It all happened so fast," Clive continued, softer than before, as though he was talking more to himself then me. He settled back into his pillow, "When I saw those two boys…I saw myself…that first year at Dreycott."

I imagined how easy a target Clive would have been as a first-year and shuddered.

"I don't blame you for trying to help them," I said, "I'm glad you did."

"But it wasn't right. For me to put you in that situation. And now everything's gone wrong."

"You did the best you could."

Feeble words. But what else could I say?

Clive finally raised his cup to his lips, though the troubled look did not fade from his eyes.

As we drank our tea in silence, I realized this was the first time we'd been alone together since that afternoon before the tournament. Thinking of that day stirred in me a sort of summer longing – memories of chess and rain storms and bicycles. Just the two of us.

And here we were again, but now there was no time for chess or trips to the park. Clive was right. Everything had gone wrong last night. He lay beaten and bruised in bed, Mr. Crimp was missing, Professor Rosen more distant than ever, the school under the thumb of Felix and Juliet, keys stolen, cottage wrecked, our only ally an unreliable investigator, my only plan to speak with a person I knew would never talk.

It all hit me like an avalanche. But I didn't have the luxury of collapsing beneath it. Not after what had happened last night. After Felix and his gang…the men who had come for Mr. Crimp.

I set my tea back on the nightstand, my shoulders straightening.

"Are you alright?" Clive asked, setting his own cup down.

Yes, I – never mind. It's only right I ask about you first. You didn't break anything did you?"

"Did _I_ break anything? No. Now if you had asked if Felix's mates broke one of my bones –"

"What!?"

"I'm just kidding."

I elbowed his leg.

"Don't joke about it."

"What else can I do?"

Clive touched his left side. "Pretty nasty bruising, but Mrs. Fledgle says it should only take a year or two off my lifespan."

"She's as cheeky as you, I see," I glanced back towards her office door, "Did she ask what happened?"

"No, she didn't ask any questions. But I think she knew. Everyone here knows, but I don't think anyone's going to speak up about it."

I thought of the teachers last night, how they had complied with Felix without any resistance. Professor Rosen, how frightened she seemed when she'd asked us to leave. My frown deepened.

"We talked to the Professor about last night."

I proceeded to tell him how the meeting had gone, as well as the plans Jeremy, Bernard, Gemma, and I had come up with. I left out the part where the Professor had ordered me off the patrol. Clive looked weary enough without another blow.

"Do you think we can trust Jeremy?" I asked when I had finished. It seemed the most pressing question, the one that would shape our plans for better or worse.

"I don't think he was lying about working with Mr. Crimp," Clive said, "But how much help is he going to be in the long-run, that's the real question."

"If we can get one of those letters, though…"

"Right. We might have a better idea what we're up against here. But anyway, who's this person you're planning on talking to?

I grimaced.

"Vivian."

Clive raised his eyebrows.

"Vivian, eh?"

"Yes. I'm thinking she might be more willing to talk now if I tell her we're working against Felix. And she's Head Girl. Or was. She's bound to know a lot about the school's secrets."

"It's a good idea," he replied, "If you can get her to talk."

"That'll be the trick, won't it?"

Clive held out his notebook.

"Take this with you. Show her the riddle and see what she thinks."

I slipped the notebook in my bag.

"Thanks."

"In the meantime, while I'm stuck here, I'll be working on something myself," he gave my hand a gentle squeeze, "Thanks for the tea, by the way. Should help keep me awake."

" _Hmph_. You should be resting."

He studied me a moment. It was that distance creeping into my voice again, betraying me.

"Are we back to square one, then?" he asked quietly.

"…What do you mean?"

I thought of an old chess puzzle my granddad had shared with me once. The goal was to help the knight travel over the entire board. How many times had I needed to start over when solving it, bringing the knight back to that very first square? It was terribly frustrating. I could hear a bit of frustration in Clive's own voice, as well as concern.

He looked away, face slightly pinker than before.

"I don't know…I feel like I've done or said something to upset you, but I can't figure out what. Even before what happened last night. And…I just keep thinking about this summer and how we talked, and I wish it could be that way again…but now it seems like it almost didn't happen."

I scowled, my cheeks suddenly burning.

"Of course it happened. And I wouldn't hold a stupid grudge like that."

"I know," his brow creased, "Listen. I'm glad you came back. I know you'd rather be with –"

"Granddad?" I looked away, "I told you, granddad's fine. He can do without me for a while."

"I never said he couldn't. I just meant – " Clive sighed, pushing a hand through his hair, "Now, I've gone and done it again, haven't I?"

"Done what? Set me off?"

"Yes – No!" he closed his eyes, "Look. Just forget I said anything."

"Fine, then," I stood, dizzy and hot despite my efforts to sound cool and rational. My heart was thudding like an insistent knock at a door I refused to open. "I-I don't have time to talk with a – a _strawberry_ like you, anyway."

A moment of fluttery horror as I realized what I'd said. Clive cracked open his eyes, tilting his head in confusion.

"You called me a strawberry."

"I – "

It was his hair, sticking up in all the wrong places, and his pink flushed cheeks. He looked just like a ripe strawberry and somehow the word had found its way from the darkest recesses of my mind to my tongue, replacing whatever insult I'd meant to flick at him. Throw in his baffled expression and rumpled pajamas and I daresay he was rather cute. Still a novel sort of thought for me. One that only made me blush harder.

"Amelia, that was uncalled for," Clive was frowning gravely, now, but _I knew_ , just knew he was suppressing a laugh, "You know, I might start crying."

"Then – then why don't you brush your hair every once in a while?" I sat down again, reaching forward to fix his collar, "And check yourself in the mirror while you're at it. Maybe then you'll look more like a boy and less like a piece of fruit."

"So instead of apologizing, you insult the poor invalid further. Incredible. Besides, I've always thought I resembled a cherry."

"There's really not much of a difference. I'd say cherries are worse. They're always too sour for my tastes."

"Oh, so I'm supposed to be happy because at least, _at least_ , you didn't call me a cherry."

We looked at one another a moment, grave as ghosts. I caught pale gold flecks in Clive's eyes, the same color as my hair. Somehow, his bruises had brought them out. And then I snorted. Because he had bruises like a fruit, too, and it was such an awful joke after everything that had happened to him. My snort finally broke Clive, who started laughing enough to drag out my own, until we were both gasping and heaving, tears in our eyes – at how ridiculous the conversation had turned, at the terrible confusion setting fire to our faces. Weary, helpless, miserable laughter. The kind that emerges despite everything. It felt good. Warmer than tea.

It faded too soon. Clive's brow furrowed, and his eyes grew distant, as if the laughter had only made him more conscious of the pain of last night.

"Amelia…" he began. I composed myself and his hesitancy gave way to firm intention, "I need to talk to you. About what Felix said about me. I've been meaning to tell you for a long time now, actually."

I stood again, too quickly I knew, but my heart was thudding once more, the warmth all but gone.

"We'll talk about it later," the words spilled out of their own accord, "I – I just realized I'm late for class."

"Amelia – "

"I've got to go."

I left before he could say anything more, shutting the door behind me.

Too much. I needed air. Needed to refocus. Being around Clive was confusing enough without adding Felix's accusations to the mix. I didn't want to know. Not now. Not when there was so much to be done. Not when we needed to trust each other more than ever. He would understand, wouldn't he?

I was so fixated on this thought, that I nearly ran into two girls standing right outside the infirmary.

"Sorry, I –"

I stiffened. Both girls wore silver sashes. I vaguely recognized them as two newer recruits from last year. They had looked a bit lost, then, but now they wore very distinct looks that made me feel as though I was being dissected under a microscope.

"Amelia," the taller one said, sweeping her long raven hair behind her ear, "We've got a message for you."

"From Juliet," the smaller one added.

"What is it?"

Taller held out a hand.

"Sash, please. You're relieved from your duties."

So. Word had already gotten to the new Head Girl. News traveled fast at Dreycott.

I unpinned my sash and handed it to her. Good riddance.

"Oh, one more thing," Taller said as Smaller tucked the sash away in her bag. "We know who you were visiting just now," she nodded toward the infirmary, "Juliet wanted to ask you –"

"She wanted to ask you, if the whole school shouldn't know, too?" Smaller chirped.

My eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"Haven't you heard? Juliet's the new editor of the school paper," Taller said.

Fresh dread turned my stomach. First Head Girl, now she had the school newspaper under her thumb, too?

"But – what about Cathy?"

"She takes orders from Juliet now," Smaller added. She smirked, "Dove, too."

"Why?"

And then I remembered.

"He's a reporter for the paper, now, isn't he?" Taller answered, "Oh, but maybe you two were hoping to make the front page together?"

"That's what Juliet's going to make the paper all about," Smaller grinned, "Dreycott's most scandalous romances. Now, let's see. The boy who was almost expelled and the girl who got kicked off Patrol. That fits the bill, doesn't it?"

The two girls erupted in a fit of giggles. I pushed past them.

When I had finally turned the corner and could no longer hear them, I let out a shaky breath. Felix was cracking down on us, just as he said. I would have to be careful…where I went…who I spoke to…all of it could be taken and used to drive me from Dreycott. The same for the others. But I could worry about that later. For now, I needed to focus on getting to class.

I tugged at my hair. With all that was going on, it was hard to believe something as mundane as attending class still existed. But perhaps it would provide a needed distraction.

Or so I thought. Entering my English class, I felt I had slipped into a bottled dream. Everything was ordinary, or should have been ordinary, but I kept looking for things that seemed off and half-finding them. Things mostly to do with my teacher, who seemed restless and placid at the same time, as if she was the tired student trying to pay attention. There was no enthusiasm for the new term, no excitement for what we were going to be learning about, only a strained attempt to have all the appearances of instructing us, without any substance. I could sense the confusion among the other pupils. They knew something was off just as I did. That something had been off for a long time, but only now was reaching a crest.

My other classes of the morning were not much different. Was it Felix and the Patrol behind it, or were the teachers aware of a bigger threat? Was it possible that they, like Professor Rosen, were all caught in the same web? Manipulated by the same shadowy forces…

With these worrisome thoughts to keep me company, I ate a quick lunch at the patrol table, or the old patrol table, anyway. Apparently, Felix and his gang did not eat in the dining hall, anymore. None of them were present, except for a few muscle strategically placed around the room, harassing pupils about this or that when they felt the urge. Vivian was absent as well, though that was to be expected.

After finishing, I returned to the girls' dormitories, still trying to figure out what I was going to say to convince her to speak with me. Would mentioning Juliet and Felix persuade her to open her door or would it only rankle her further? What if I told her I still thought of her as the _true_ Head Girl, tried to butter her up a bit? Or should I attempt a more hard-nosed approach? Demand she tell me what she knew?

I stopped in front of Vivian's room and heaved a sigh, my eyes sliding to trace the grooves in the wooden door as though they formed a map that would guide me.

I could admit it to myself, now. Vivian had always intimidated me, from the moment she'd tracked me down out on the lawn my very first night. Even after I had joined patrol, and her opinion of me had improved slightly, talking to her still made me feel small and uncertain of my own words. She had a confidence, a natural authority, that I lacked. Would I flounder at getting any useful information from her?

Beneath this fear, there was anger, too. At how Vivian had insinuated time and time again the idea that Clive was behind the Statue. At how she had watched without a hint of concern the fight between him and Trevor in the patroller lounge. How she had humiliated Gemma the second day at Dreycott…humiliated me the first. If everything was boiled down to bare bones, was she any different from Felix and Juliet?

Disgust began to tangle inside me. Why should I go to her for help? Why give her any more satisfaction? Another opportunity to look down her nose at me? Let her hole herself up in her room just like her precious Professor. I didn't need her. I could figure my next step out on my own.

I was ready to turn away from the door when my earlier conversation with Ursula nudged its way back to the forefront of my mind. How much Vivian cared for the Professor in the absence of her own parents. The sense of confusion and abandonment she likely now felt. I couldn't help but think of my own granddad, as much as I wanted to put him out of mind for the time being.

My stubbornness softened. I couldn't excuse Vivian's actions or brush aside the way she had treated me and my friends. But maybe my anger was more stained with pride than I cared to admit. Maybe there was more to the story. Maybe Vivian and I had something in common after all.

Steeling myself, I gave the door a firm knock.

No reply.

I hadn't expected anything different. I knocked again.

"Vivian?"

"Go. Away."

"Vivian, it's Amelia. Please. I need to talk to you. It's about the Professor. I – she's in trouble and I know you can help."

Again, no reply. I waited, minute after minute crawling by until, finally, frustration clenching my stomach, I turned away.

The door creaked open behind me. Vivian peered out. For once, her copper hair was not pulled back in a tight ponytail but hung loose around her shoulders. I thought she looked pretty – less an authoritarian figure and more an ordinary school-girl. Perhaps even someone I could be friends with. The thought settled my stomach a bit.

"Five minutes," she said, "I'll let you in for five minutes and then you leave me alone."

"I promise."

I followed her into her room. It looked nearly the same as any other at Dreycott. Same bed, dresser, and desk, anyway. The walls, however, were lined with poster boards and calendars – charts, schedules, and checklists detailing every aspect of Vivian's life and duties at the school. Or former duties. Many of the posters related to her position as Head Girl. All color coded and printed in impeccable hand-writing. On her desk lay a matching stationary set and office supplies labeled and organized in partitioned containers. A stray paperclip would've been immediately noticeable.

Looking around, I realized my own cleaning habits paled in comparison. Everything had a place – everything, save for her clothes, which were strewn about her perfectly made-bed, and her suitcases lying open on the floor, half-packed.

"You're leaving?"

Vivian turned her desk chair round and sat down, crossing her arms.

"Is that _really_ what you came to talk to me about?"

"I – ah – no. It's the Professor. You know she wasn't the one who chose Felix and Juliet, don't you?"

Oops. The names had slipped out anyway. Vivian's green eyes narrowed, searing me.

"No, I don't know that. And I'm wondering why you think _you_ do."

"Someone's manipulating her, sending her letters. We think they might be blackmail or – or threats."

Vivian shook her head.

"Still letting Dove spin silly rumors in your head, I see. Why don't you four just mind your own business?"

I tugged at one of my plaits, feeling as though I was playing a verbal chess match. Every word a single move and, thus far, they'd all been countered by Vivian's own defenses.

"But isn't that our job as patrollers?" I continued, trying to keep any sort of pleading from my voice, "Aren't we supposed to be protecting the school?"

"I'm not a patroller. Not anymore."

Vivian stood and, brushing past me, resumed folding her clothes.

My tugging grew more frantic. _Think. Think!_

"But – but how can you just give up?"

Vivian kept her eyes on her task.

"Give up? I was thrown out. I'm finished here."

"But Professor Rosen – "

"Hasn't spoken a word to me since I got back."

Vivian's fingers tightened on the shirt she held, crumpling the fabric until she threw it down on the bed, shoulders heaving.

"She still cares about you."

I kept my voice gentle. This couldn't be a chess match. Not this time. Vivian had been hurt. She didn't need another opponent. "I think she's trying to protect you."

My words kindled a realization.

"Maybe – maybe she's trying to protect me, too. She made me hand in my sash today. Maybe she's trying to protect all of us."

Vivian turned, raising her eyebrows.

"And here I thought she was going to make you one of my assistants," she sniffed, "No matter. Now we're both out of a job."

More common ground. I wanted to use it, but I wasn't sure how. Vivian picked up on my hesitancy.

"What do you want?" she said, "Just spit it out."

I let out another sigh. She was right. Time to be direct.

"What do you know about the devil's labyrinth?"

Her shoulders tensed, creases folding her brow.

"What? What do you know about that? What does that have to do with the Professor?"

"A lot actually. I can't explain it all now, but the Professor tried to find it herself, when she was younger."

"Of course," Vivian said, "The Professor was a patroller, after all."

"It's all connected, isn't it? Araneae, the eye, the puzzles, the labyrinth…" I lowered my voice, "Even the Statue."

"Yes," Vivian replied, "Like I told you at the initiation, watching over the school isn't the Patrol's only job. We're supposed to solve all the puzzles scattered about and find the eye."

"The oculus sapphire," I murmured.

Vivian's eyes widened, betraying a mixture of surprise and outrage, before her expression settled once more into one of studied disinterest.

" _Hmph_. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you know that, but yes, according to legend, the eye is, in fact, the Dreycott family's most prized treasure. It was stashed away in the school, a long time ago, by someone in the family, perhaps, and that's why the Patrol was eventually formed. To find it again."

"But I don't understand. How did the whole Araneae story start? Who hid the sapphire and why?"

So many questions. One thread inevitably led to another, on and on in an endless circle. A web.

"I don't know, and I really don't care," Vivian said, "I've realized it's all rubbish. Ever since I became a patroller I've wanted to find it. I never stopped thinking about how much publicity the school would've gotten if some historical treasure were found here. How happy it would make the Professor…"

Her features sagged, and she looked away.

"You were trying to find the labyrinth yourself, weren't you?"

"The eye is supposed to be somewhere under the school," Vivian said, "You remember Lily's story. Supposedly, there's secret passages under Dreycott. Passages, and puzzles, and all sorts of traps. I wanted to open that door under the cellar, recover the eye, but…thanks to you and your friends…"

"Sorry," I blurted, not knowing what else to say, "I suppose, maybe we should have been working together. But listen, we found all four keys. We opened the door."

Vivian's eyes widened.

"What? You—what did you find!?"

"A riddle that – "

"A riddle," she sneered, her enthusiasm draining away, "See. It all goes nowhere. Puzzle after puzzle. It's called the sapphire cycle after all. Just one big circle of nonsense. The sapphire isn't real."

"Just listen to the riddle," I said, pulling out Clive's notebook, "And tell me what you think of it."

Vivian sighed, tapping her foot. The message was all too clear.

Clearing my throat, I read in as level a voice as I could manage:

"Ye who seek passage to the devil's labyrinth enter her name. She who lies entombed beneath. Thy noble ancestor - wordless, soundless, voiceless. With letters inscribed by lamplight, let her speak once more, that the truth may be revealed, and thy inheritance rightly claimed."

Vivian remained silent for a long time. When she spoke again, my stomach sank.

"I don't know. It means nothing to me. I would say it refers to Araneae, but why would the riddle call her 'thy noble ancestor'?"

"We tried that, but it didn't work. I know the Araneae story is connected somehow, but I just can't quite fit the two together."

Vivian sank down on her bed, a hand to her chin. I watched her eyes flicker, back and forth.

"There might be something," she finally said, "The riddle reminded me…"

"Reminded you?"

"That part where it says 'wordless, soundless voiceless'. It reminded of a clue that's been passed down from Head to Head," she paused, "But we're not supposed to share it with anyone but our successor…"

I raised my eyebrows.

"You're going to share it with Juliet?"

Vivian's nose crinkled.

"Of course not. I'd rather…rather…"

"Drop dead?"

Her cheeks flushed, but a very un-Vivian smile twitched at her lips. Almost mischievous.

"Yes, something like that," her smile faded, "I suppose I must share it with someone, though. It can't be forgotten…

She stood, as if trying to fill herself with resolve, and fixed me in a penetrating emerald glare. "Now listen to me. I'm doing this for the Professor. _Only_ for the Professor. Do you promise if I tell you, that this will help her?"

"It will in the long run," I replied honestly, "If it will help us unravel this whole mystery."

"Alright," Vivian said, "Here's what the previous Head Girl told me." She cleared her throat and clasped her hands in front of her as if she was about to begin a recitation, "Silence is the key."

I waited for her to continue, but her mouth was set.

"Silence is the key? That's it?"

"That's it."

Silence. I thought of the riddle at the entrance to the secret hideout, of the puzzles within – listen to silence, skip the silent step…wordless, soundless, voiceless…

"The answer is silence. Of course. It's so simple."

"So, it would seem," Vivian said, though she was frowning, "But the riddle seems to be talking about an actual person."

"Thy noble ancestor…you're right," I sighed, "It's a start, anyway. I think we're on the right track,"

I stood. "Thank you, Vivian. I'll, er, let you get back to your packing."

"Finally."

Before I reached the door, however, I paused, peering over my shoulder.

"You know, we could use your help, if – if you're willing to stay."

I wasn't entirely sure why I'd said it. Despite my earlier sentiment, I knew Vivian and I would never be friends. But the idea of her leaving Dreycott and the Professor, the one place she felt at home, without any sense of closure seemed a terrible thing.

Vivian shook her head again, chuckling.

"Word of advice, Amelia? You're too nice. And the moment that little backstabber smells it on you, she'll use it against you."

"Little back –"

"Juliet. She's out to get the four of you, you know, but especially _you_."

"Why? I haven't done anything to her."

"Don't ask me. Of course, Felix wants to get back at Dove for what he did. But Juliet? She's just bored. This is all a game to her."

"Well, I've always been rather good at games."

Vivian's eyes bore into mine, challenging me.

"Quit while you're ahead, Amelia. This place is falling apart at the seams. Might as well leave while you can."

I didn't say anything. Finally, she turned away and began folding her clothes once more.

I watched her a moment, then slipped out the door, relaxing as soon as I did. That was not something I wanted to go through every day. But now that it was over, I was glad I'd done it. Not only because of the lead Vivian had provided me, but because any fear of her had faded. I couldn't help but feel that if things were different, that if we somehow swapped shoes, that I could've turned out just like her and she like me and perhaps that meant we were a bit alike after all.

Part of me hoped she would change her mind and decide to help us, if only because no one could irritate Felix quite like Vivian. But even if she did decide to help there was still another roadblock with which we had to contend. Felix had the keys and we had no idea where he was keeping them. Trying to get them back could lead us right into another sticky encounter and this time there might not be such a lucky escape.

If that wasn't enough to worry about, now Vivian had got me thinking of Juliet. Before I had seen her more as Felix's sidekick, but from what Vivian had said she might prove to be a serious threat in her own right. I'd need to keep my guard up.

I stopped in the middle of the hallway. The energy that had sustained me through my conversation with Vivian was all but spent, draining away to achy exhaustion.

Now what?

After a brief debate, I decided to return to my room until supper, when I'd meet up with the others and share what I'd found out. For now, my afternoon was free. I could read, do a bit of homework, take a nap, or…my eyes stopped at my desk. I should write a letter to granddad. Fill him in on how my first day went with some humorous embellishments. Not that there was much to laugh about.

I sat down at my desk, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen from one of my drawers.

 _Dear granddad_ , I wrote, then paused. What could I say that wouldn't make him worry? That wouldn't make him more ill than he already was?

The exhaustion deepened, sharpened by a pang of loneliness, and all the resolve I'd gathered last night seemed ready to wash away once more. I tucked the letter away. It could wait. I needed to stay focused. No need to stir up all the anxiety from yesterday when I'd finally seemed to have gotten a handle on it and settled my mind back into Dreycott's mystery. Granddad would understand I was busy. Probably needed a break from me anyway.

I decided to slip into a book, instead. An old favorite I'd been neglecting. After re-reading the first page of Chapter 11 for the fiftieth time, however, I gave up and went outside for a brief walk, hoping to clear my head.

The lawn seemed more abandoned than ever without Amos Crimp. The only eyes watching me now belonged to indifferent birds and crumbling statuary, dressed in lichen and water stains. Passing the fountain, I realized I could do whatever I wanted with it. Give it a kick for all the trouble it'd caused. Draw big round spectacles on Hyacinth's downcast eyes.

This attempt at a joke only made me feel worse. Mr. Crimp hadn't just been protecting the fountain, he had been protecting us, too. And now it was our turn to help him. But how?

As the sun slipped down past trees dense with crows and starlings settling for the evening, I hurried into the warmth of the dining hall.

Gemma and Bernard were waiting for me at the usual table. They answered the question on my mind before I could even ask it.

"Still in the infirmary," Bernard said.

"Yeah, I checked on him about an hour ago," Gemma added, "Still running a temp so Mrs. Fledgle wants to keep an eye on him for one more night."

"Oh."

I couldn't help but feel a bit relieved. Not that I didn't want Clive to get better, but after my sudden departure earlier that morning, I needed some time to let the dust settle and think things through. I hated myself for walking out on him. Who knew how long he'd been building his courage to talk to me about it? Only for me to cut him off, leave without a second glance.

Heat prickled my cheeks. I knew he must be angry with me and rightly so. I would be angry. Would he refuse to tell me now? I hoped not. I wanted to know. I wanted to hear it from him and no one else. At the same time, though, I was terrified. What had he done to nearly get himself expelled? To make such an enemy out of Felix? What had happened October 19th?

"So," Gemma said, cutting into my thoughts, "Er, how did it go today?"

Both she and Bernard had that expectant look in their eyes again.

I took a deep breath. Focus.

"I spoke with Vivian."

"What did she say?" Gemma asked, leaning closer, "Did you find anything out?

"Yes, and now I feel stupid for not realizing it sooner."

I explained to them Vivian's thoughts on the labyrinth and the eye, ending with her clue about silence being the key.

"Of course," Gemma said, "Silence! Every puzzle we've solved has been literally screaming the answer to the riddle at us."

"But what are the implications?" Bernard said, "If silence is the answer to the riddle, then that means silence is Silence? A person?"

"That's what Vivian was thinking," I said, "Though I haven't heard of anyone in the Dreycott family named Silence."

"Is that even a name?" Gemma asked, "Anyway, listen to what I've discovered. I did a bit of reconnaissance and you know what? Felix's goons are guarding the fourth floor. I checked all the stairs leading up. There's no way you could slip past them."

"Really?" I said, "I wonder why they're trying to keep people out."

"Or maybe they're trying to keep someone in," Gemma countered, "What if they're keeping Mr. Crimp up there?"

"You think Felix kidnapped Mr. Crimp?" Bernard asked, raising his eyebrows.

"He couldn't have," I said, "But he could be working for whoever did."

"True, true," Gemma's eyes had wandered over to the clock, "Oh! Gotta run."

She stood, grabbing her tray

"What? Where are you going?" I asked.

"Um, theatre stuff."

"Really?" Bernard said, "We don't have time for that."

"I know _you_ don't. But we're starting to work on – on the play."

"Already?" I said, "Isn't it a bit early?"

Gemma rubbed at her neck.

"It's never too early. We need all the time we can get. Anyway, Miss Bijou is waiting for me. See you guys later!"

And she was gone, dashing across the hall and past the patrollers guarding the door without a second glance.

"It's Wednesday," Bernard said, "Not that I pay much attention, but isn't play practice usually Tuesdays and Thursdays?"

"It was last year," I said, "But maybe they changed it?"

"Kids!"

Jeremy was striding straight toward us. He wore a heavy pair of glasses, suspenders, and a paintbrush behind each ear.

"Meet your new substitute art teacher," he announced, sitting down next to me, "Mr. Easel."

He winked.

"Jeremy," I lowered my voice, "Er – _Mr. Easel_ , what are you doing here?"

"I've come to tell you my plan," he replied, flipping through his planner, "For getting our collective hands on that letter."

He grinned, sliding the planner across the table. My eyes widened then narrowed as I read what he had written. "So, who's ready to break a few rules?"


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Chapter 28**

The first rule to be tossed out the window was the sanctity of the Professor's office. Jeremy met me and Clive outside her door the Saturday morning following our dining hall meeting, which had gone as well as I'd expected.

During the hour allotted to us for supper, Bernard had raised every objection imaginable to Jeremy's plan, while Gemma had clapped and grinned fiendishly at each new detail. I had done my best to stand upon the middle ground, asking careful questions lined with sober optimism, trying to keep the main goal in mind throughout. We needed to get our hands on the letter Mr. Harrier would deliver to Professor Rosen by the end of the week, preferably without either ever realizing we'd done so. In the end, it seemed Jeremy's plan would achieve this goal, but the methods he had in mind concerned me, to say the least.

I shivered, returning to the present, as a draft of cold air slithered down the corridor. For the hundredth time, I peered over my shoulder, expecting a patroller to come striding round the corner, driving the chill before them.

Jeremy noticed the look.

"It's alright," he said, with his typical air, one I had originally mistook for genuine confidence and now knew was more of a half-baked bravado, "I double checked the schedule. We should have another 3.5 minutes to carry out this portion of the plan before any patroller spots us."

He chuckled. "Not that it matters. I _am_ Mr. Easel, now, after all. And as a teacher, I have a certain amount of authority."

 _Yes, but we're breaking into the headmistress' office_ , I wanted to say, _and only a fake art teacher would have splotches of paint on his nose and eyebrows._

I wished Bernard was there to add a snide remark of his own. As it stood, I was too tired and nervous to reply out loud, and Clive was too busy twisting away at the lock to give more than a non-committal grunt.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" Jeremy murmured, casting his own nervous glance over his shoulder.

I wanted to ask why, as a private investigator, Jeremy couldn't pick his own locks, but thought it wasn't worth the effort or the answer. Clive didn't reply, either. His face was set in stony concentration, ear bent near the knob as his twisting grew more careful and controlled, wrist pivoting back and forth with practiced ease.

He had been released from the infirmary the day after I'd brought him tea and, since then, his bruises had gradually faded. Now, I couldn't tell if the shadows brushed beneath his eyes were the last vestiges of swelling or evidence of late nights spent thinking and planning. Perhaps a combination of both.

 _Cli-click…. kli-chunk._

I watched his expression soften in satisfaction. He drew his pick from the lock and straightened, turning the knob smoothly. The door creaked open.

Again, I wanted to say something cheeky, to cover the faint unease I always felt at how he could pick locks as well as any thief. It wasn't just my anxiety about what I was about to do that kept me quiet this time, however. Clive's bruises may have faded with the week, but the bruise I had so stupidly caused by walking out on him, cutting him off right as he'd mustered his courage to tell me something important, had only grown more swollen. It wasn't that we had said anything more to upset the other, it was that we really hadn't said anything at all, other than to discuss Jeremy's plan and what I'd learnt from Vivian.

I was reminded of the time when Clive had almost lodged a fist in Felix's eye and how the encounter had sat like a bottle of spoilt-milk, souring our friendship. We'd set things right only after Clive had spoken to me that blustery December night. Now I felt it was my turn to speak up, to settle things between us once more. But how? And when?

More and more lately, I felt eyes on the two of us; ears eager to pick up on any thread of private conversation; minds keen to exploit any weakness. It was, in fact, a miracle we had made it out of the dormitories unseen, although another raucous late-night party in the patroller lounge had certainly helped.

"Well done," Jeremy said, mopping his brow with relief. His sweat blended with the paint he'd intentionally dabbed on his forehead, creating a bluish smear, "Phase one of the plan complete."

Stepping past Clive, he pushed the door to the professor's office open further and then slipped into the waiting room, beckoning us to follow. Clive went next, and I followed close behind, carefully shutting the door behind me.

It was odd seeing the secretary, Ms. Brickle's, desk sit unoccupied. Her typewriter looked a bit like a grimacing skull, its white keys a mouthful of teeth, revealing distaste at our intrusion.

Jeremy wasted no time opening the door on the opposite side of the room, leading the way into the office proper. Beyond, all was quiet and still, save for the steady tick of the monotone clock on the wall, an unneeded reminder of the urgency of our mission.

My eyes darted from the steel file cabinets to the papers littering the Professor's desk to the black bookshelves. So much we could sort through – who knew how many secrets we'd find? But there wasn't time. And we'd come for one secret in particular.

I followed Jeremy over to the desk, sleek and rectangle, noting once more the picture of the Professor with a young girl on her lap.

For some reason, the photograph made me feel a twinge of guilt at our invasion. It was the one personal touch in a room cold and modern as a factory, reminding me the Professor was a human as much as a headmistress.

 _Should we really be doing this?_

Before I could consider the question, the ceaseless ticking cut into my thoughts once more. No time for hesitation. I walked round to the other side of the desk, trying to forget the two small faces watching me.

Jeremy had already pulled back the Professor's chair, revealing a narrow alcove, dark and square and indifferent to the idea of someone squeezing themselves into its depth.

I sighed as I crouched down, eying the space as one might the burrow of some temperamental badger. I might get in, but would I ever come out? If only the Professor had a closet or even a set of long curtains I could hide behind. But, no, her office was stark and minimalistic, with only the desk concealing a potential hiding spot.

"Will you fit?" Jeremy asked, apparently more concerned with entering than exiting. Then, as if reading my mind in all the wrong ways, he added what he must have thought was a comforting comparison, "Doesn't look so bad. Like a cozy badger's den!"

"I'll fit," I said blandly, starting to feel like a disgruntled badger myself.

Bernard would have fit better, but he had been given a different part in the plan, one which he was equally unhappy about.

Jeremy checked his watch.

"Ms. Brickle should be arriving in ten minutes. The Professor will be shortly after. The meeting is scheduled at eight, so you shouldn't have to wait too long."

"Notebook and pen?" Clive asked.

I held up both.

"Remember," Jeremy said, "If the Professor doesn't get a chance to open the letter before she hears Gemma, you're to open it for her. We can worry about what she'll do when she finds out later. For now, it's imperative we learn what it says."

"Right."

Reluctance and irritation fought within the word. It seemed Jeremy was talking just for the sake of talk now. I wanted to get on with it.

"Alright. Good. Looks like we're all set then."

"Except for that paint on your face," Clive said, "Might want to think about washing that off."

Before Jeremy could respond in outraged defense of his disguise, Clive had stepped past him, facing me with that frown of concentration he always wore amid any puzzle or plan.

"Well…" His hand went for his tie, twisting at the knot until the whole thing hung crooked. "Er, be careful, will you?"

His last syllable sounded oddly hitched, as if he wanted to say more but had stopped himself just in time.

"Erm, you too."

I imagined him replying with some cheeky comment, like, 'Nonsense. I get the fun part,', prompting an elbow jab from me in return. But he simply nodded, already back in his head, probably running through the plan with a fine-toothed comb yet again.

I knew he wasn't keen on Jeremy's plan and he was even less keen on taking orders from the private investigator. He was used to being the leader, after all, and the part he'd been relegated to was, I knew, not at all to his liking. But ever since that night in the cellar, he had lost a bit of that foxlike verve of his, leaving him quiet and oddly compliant.

I'd been sure he'd challenge Jeremy's plan on at least several points when I had first explained it to him, but instead he'd merely nodded and asked a few questions as he jotted in his notebook, his deepening frown his only objection. Distracted, that's what he was. I only wish I knew what was occupying his mind. Felix and his gang? Our quarrel in the infirmary? October 19th?

Despite the strain between us, I felt a peculiar urge, alarming almost, to slip my hand in his or brush his bangs from his eyes or even straighten his tie. Something that would bring him out of his thoughts and serve as a silent apology.

Or perhaps it was more selfish than that. Maybe I only wanted his attention, his touch, the warmth of his fingers interlaced in mine. Something to reassure me we were still friends, or even –

"Ready there, Braids?"

I started. Jeremy studied me with a worried frown. "You're sure you can handle this?"

That woke me up a bit, like a wasp sting on the nose, heating my face. What was I doing? Daydreaming about holding Clive's hand when I needed all my wits about me. For a chess player, distractions like that could be fatal. And this was a game of chess right now, one that required all my concentration and none of my feelings. Besides, I hadn't even worked up the nerve to apologize to him. What right did I have to even entertain thoughts like that?

I straightened my shoulders, wishing I was as tall as Clive.

"Of course, I can handle it."

No time to worry about it all now. Turning my back on the two, I slipped down under the desk, squeezing myself as far back as possible, tucking my legs up so that my chin rested on my knees. Not comfortable by any means, but manageable, even if I did feel a bit like a ragdoll shoved to the bottom of the toy chest. I only hoped I was far enough back the Professor wouldn't notice me.

What would happen if she did? And what if she discovered me whilst Mr. Harrier was still in the room? I cut the thought off at the head. I had spent most of last night pondering it, after all. I didn't need to start up again today.

Jeremy peered down under the desk and gave me a final thumb's up.

"Good luck, Braids."

I tried forcing out a weak smile, but my lip trembled faintly and shattered the attempt. I bit the tremble away, hoping Clive hadn't seen.

"Go easy on Bernard, will you?" I said to him.

He seemed slightly surprised, and, for just a moment, I saw the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"Just be careful, alright?" he repeated, but this time his tone was a bit softer, providing me a smidge of reassurance.

Perhaps it would be less difficult to mend things between us then I had thought…

I jumped slightly as the door clicked softly shut.

They were gone now. I couldn't afford to be distracted any longer.

 _Clive can wait. Focus on the goal at hand._

I closed my eyes, blocking out my square-framed view of the legs of the Professor's chair digging into the flat carpet, and ran the plan through my head for the umpteenth time.

It all began once the meeting with Professor Rosen and Mr. Harrier ended. As soon as he was through the corridor and down the stairs, Clive and Bernard would take center stage a few doors down from the Professor's office, engaging in a theatrical distraction that was to be the plan's centerpiece.

"Just sort of shove each other a bit in between some verbal sparring," Jeremy had explained to them, "Maybe throw in a light punch here or there. An " _arrgh!_ " of pain. Even a slap or two…or, can either of you manage a head-lock?"

Bernard and Clive had stared at him, speechless and mortified. But neither had been able to come up with a better distraction. Gemma had volunteered to fight one of the boys instead, but Jeremy insisted Bernard and Clive having a go at each other seemed more natural.

She was excited about her own part, regardless. Gemma would attempt to break up the fight, only to decide to go to the Professor for help, if the headmistress wasn't already drawn from her office by the noise. As soon as the Professor left, I was to spring into action. My part was simple, but crucial. I was to take Mr. Harrier's letter from the Professor's desk and copy it down as fast as I could.

Last time, Rosen had destroyed the letter she'd received promptly after reading it, so it was only safe to assume she'd do so again. The brief window of time between the meeting and Professor Rosen reading the letter was all we had to learn what the letter said.

As far as plans went, it was straightforward enough, if not a little ridiculous, but so much could go wrong. I could be discovered, Clive and Bernard's fight could attract unwanted attention of the patrol variety, or the Professor could destroy the letter before I ever had a chance to read it.

And then there was Jeremy's own role. He planned on tailing Mr. Harrier after he left the school. For some reason, this part of the plan made me most uneasy of all. Just what sort of man was Mr. Harrier and how dangerous was he really? If he was connected to the Blue Aster, did he have a hand in Mr. Crimp's disappearance? What would he do to Jeremy if he caught him?

My mind wandered, for perhaps the millionth time, to how Mr. Harrier and the letters he delivered to the Professor were connected. Was he only saying they were penned by a third party, when, in fact, they were from him? Or was he merely a go-between for someone behind the scenes? And what, exactly, were in the letters? Threats, blackmail, warnings, something else entirely? This was our one chance to find out, to shed light on whatever shadow stood over the Professor's shoulder and kept her fearful and complacent whilst her school spiraled out of her control.

A muffled click took me from my thoughts, followed by a creak. I stiffened. Ms. Brickle, presumably. My suspicions were confirmed when, several minutes later, her typewriter began its familiar clacking.

My heart thudded, and in the small space beneath the desk, it seemed powerful enough to rattle my entire body.

The Professor wasn't long in coming now. I wrapped my arms tighter about me, trying to make myself ever smaller, breathing as lightly as I could, wanting to catch as many sounds as possible. My ears were my eyes now and every clack of the typewriter, ever tick from the clock sent images straight to my mind – of all the could happen, the Professor finding me out, dragging me from beneath her desk, of my futile attempt to talk my way out, of Mr. Harrier's cryptic gaze boring into mine.

Perhaps I could pretend to be dead if I was discovered. The thought was ridiculous but provided me an odd bit of morbid entertainment at how the two might react. Maybe they'd be so shocked, I could suddenly spring out and make an escape, taking the letter with me.

My mind drifted through these scenarios as the minutes passed – minutes I had no way of discerning. Indeed, minutes seemed too precise a word. Time existed only as sensations; the tingle of heat on my cheeks and the prickle of invisible needles crawling up my legs as they grew numb from want of circulation. The stagnant air in my lungs, the smothering scent of gray carpet and paint. I was not a doll any longer, but a mummy sealed in a jar.

 _Clackity-clack-clack-clackity-clack-creeeeeaak_.

I stiffened, ears straining until they caught a few muffled words being exchanged in the waiting room.

Another creak and then the click of Professor Rosen's high-heels, dull against her carpeted floor. I caught sight of them, like silver knives, as she approached the desk and squeezed myself even tighter, my spine butting up against the faux wood of the desk, sending a dull, throbbing pain tingling up my neck, into the base of my head.

The Professor pulled back her chair just enough to allow her to slip in and sit, her legs fitting neatly into the space I occupied, the tip of her heels nearly brushing the edge of my skirt.

I breathed an almost imperceptible sigh of relief, before a sharp realization made me draw it back in. If I moved even slightly, I could bump her shoe, instantly alerting her to my presence.

The next span of minutes was even more agonizing then the preceding one. Except for the soft scritch of her pen or the rustle of papers, the Professor worked so silently at her desk that she seemed a ghost. This meant that I had to keep quieter than the dead and so still that my hands began to tremble with fatigue. It grew ever hotter under the desk until sweat dripped down the collar of my shirt, gluing it to my back. All the while, I kept my eyes screwed shut and bit my lip tightly, allowing stale air to enter and escape only through my nose.

 _Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up, hurry up, hurry up, hurry up._

This phrase, like a feverish chant, was the only cognizant thought I could keep ahold of. Everything else – the plan, the letter, Mr. Harrier – began to grow blurry and faint.

I felt as Jeremy must have when he was trapped beneath Mr. Crimp's house – as if I would suffocate without even a struggle and by the time the Professor discovered me it would be too late. Pretending I was dead beneath the desk no longer seemed an amusing idea. It warped, instead, to something darker – the blind panic of being crushed, of never moving or feeling sunlight on my skin or tasting fresh air.

I was nearly ready to push the Professor aside and tumble out, when there came a curt knock at the door.

The panic subsided, and my mission returned to me, my mind flushed clean by a new wave of fearful urgency. He had arrived.

The door announced him formally with a low creak. Professor Rosen straightened in her chair. From where I was sitting, I could glimpse one hand now clenched at her side.

"Mr. Harrier."

Her greeting was equally curt, devoid of any revealing emotions.

"Good to see you, Professor."

I stiffened at the sound of his voice. The hint of mockery was so apparent and so sour it turned my stomach. More then ever I realized he was toying with her, flaunting his power beneath a veneer of geniality. But why? What power did he have over her? And what did he stand to gain?

"Please, have a seat," the Professor replied.

"Not today, Professor. I'm running a bit behind schedule, so I'm afraid I must leave this with you and be on my way."

I assumed he was referring to the letter, one that he would undoubtedly claim showed up in his post quite mysteriously. The Professor and Mr. Harrier didn't discuss the origins of the letter this time, however.

"This is the last one?"

The Professor sounded almost as if she was trying to reassure herself.

" _Hmph_. I wouldn't be able to tell you that. If anything, I should be asking you that question."

Condescension dripped from his every word, daring the Professor to accuse him.

"May we drop these pretentions, Mr. Harrier?"

A slight tremor marked the Professor's voice, layered with weariness. "If this is the last one, then our business with each other must be over or very nearly. I would very much like for us to be frank with each other. Just once."

"Pretentions?" Mr. Harrier chuckled, "Why, whatever are you talking about, Professor? As I said, I should be the one asking you if this whole business is almost at its end. After all, it is in _your_ hands now. Do as your told and soon this will all be a bad dream," He paused, "Or try to take matters into your own hands and drag the nightmare out just a little longer. Is that frank enough for you?"

Footsteps as Mr. Harrier turned back to the door, followed by a pause.

" _Oh_ ," his voice jumped up in pitch as if he had been reminded of a pleasant anecdote," I saw your granddaughter coming in. She's grown into _such_ a lovely thing, hasn't she?"

The words hung in the air, heavy with dark possibility. For once, I was glad to be safely stuffed under the desk. I watched the Professor's fist tighten, knuckles swelling white.

"Good day, Abigail."

The door clicked softly shut, muffling Mr. Harrier's footfalls.

 _Tick, tick, tick, tick…_

 _Clickety-clack-clackety…_

With a heavy sigh, the Professor shifted in her seat, her chair creaking with uncertainty, upsetting the mundane cadence of the typewriter and clock.

I tensed, gripping my notebook and pencil tighter. Now I was the garish jack-in-the-box, ready to pop out at just the right moment when the right note hit my ears.

They first picked up on the light, clean _fsst_ as the Professor sliced the envelope open. Then the rustle of paper underscored by the beating of my own heart. And then. And then…

" _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHIIEEE!_ "

I nearly knocked my head against the top of the desk.

Gemma.

 _It's not real,_ I reminded myself, nearly choking on my own heartbeat, _you know how good an actress she is_. _It's all pretend._

Still, if I hadn't known better, I'd have said Gemma was mortally wounded.

The Professor must have thought the same. Even with my limited shot of her lower half, I had never seen her react so quickly. She stood up from her chair, nearly knocking it over in the process, and was out the door before I could blink.

I wasted no time scrambling out from under the desk, standing on wobbling legs that tingled and stung as the blood rushed through my veins nearly as fast as my lungs sucked in gulps of air. I blinked in the excess of light, like a bat startled from an attic in searing midday, until I whirled around, my overwhelmed eyes settling on a single sheet of paper guarded by a silver letter opener.

Without sparing a second, I bent over the desk, my entire frame trembling, though from fatigue or fear, I wasn't sure. Setting my notebook flat next to the letter, I flipped to a fresh page and put pen to paper; scanning line after line, writing words without allowing myself to take meaning from them, like a bored pupil reading a maths text or an indifferent machine, letting the sentences sloppily sprawl across the page with barely a pause between periods. It didn't matter. As long as I got the message right.

 _Winter Gala…granddaughter…do not interfere…nearly done…your family… exposed…Mr. Trewinkle…serum…remember your part…Abigail…_

Done.

I shoved my notebook and pen under my arm and started for the door, snagging my foot on the desk chair in the process. With a small yelp, I stumbled, catching myself on one of the filing cabinets, which let out a hollow clang of protest.

My breath caught in my throat.

Ms. Brickle. What if she was still out there?

I stood still, listening for her typewriter, but hearing only the clock and muffled voices from beyond the office.

Tiptoeing to the door, I peered out and saw with relief her desk sitting unoccupied. She had followed the Professor, just as we'd planned.

Silent as a cat, I slipped out of the waiting room and down the left-hand corridor.

"Well _._ _He_ started it."

I glanced over my shoulder and caught site of a loose knot of people…Clive and Bernard, Gemma and the Professor, Ms. Brickle and several other pupils and patrollers, hungry for drama. Bernard had been the one who'd spoken. Not in his normal, grumbling voice, but something a tad stiff and theatrical. He was being restrained by a patroller and glaring daggers at Clive, who was smirking smugly. Neither had to fake their expressions, anyway, seeing as they were both quite default. Even from far away, I could tell Gemma was trying very hard not to laugh.

"I finished it, too," Clive said in a voice that matched his smirk. I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Always had to have the last word, that one did.

"Let's take this into my office, shall we?" the Professor said. The group started down the hallway, Clive and Bernard shoved along by the two patrollers and Gemma trailing close by.

One of the patrollers suddenly caught sight of me and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, I twisted on my heel and darted into the nearby girls' lavatory, locking myself in an empty stall.

For a moment, I leant against the door, letting the rhythm of my heartbeat and breathing even out, my eyes closed, notebook clutched to my chest, riding its rise and fall. After a minute or two, I loosened my grip and held the notebook before me. I wanted to open it and read the letter, but something held me back. The words written inside had tainted it from an ordinary school item, to something dark and secretive.

 _Wait for everyone. We'll read it together._

I kept this in mind until, nearly ten minutes later, Gemma entered the lavatory to retrieve me.

"Amelia? You in here?"

I cautiously unlocked the door and stepped out from the stall.

She was upon me instantly, gripping my shoulders, eyes bright, hair slightly frazzled.

"Did you get it?"

"I got it," I replied, holding up the notebook, "How did the fight go?"

She threw back her head and laughed. I wondered if it had been that genuinely funny or if she were trying to keep some worry at bay.

"The fight? It was pathetic, Amelia! I had to pinch my arm fat to keep myself from laughing."

We started out of the lavatory together. "But I more than made up for it with my _superior_ acting. Anyway, the boys have already gone down, so we should hurry."

"But what did the Professor say about it all?" I asked, "You didn't get in trouble, did you?"

Gemma scrunched up her face.

"I was kind of surprised. She acted really concerned. Like you know how stiff she usually is. But she tried to break up the fight herself and then she had me by the arm and was asking me if I was alright? Was I hurt?" Gemma snorted, "Can you believe it? But Clive got it all sorted out nicely, you know how he is. Slippery gent when he needs to be."

As we headed to the portrait that concealed the secret hideout, where we had decided beforehand we would meet, Gemma grew oddly quiet, a frown and furrowed brow tightening her expression.

Was she still thinking about the mock fight, I wondered, or perhaps it was one of her reoccurring headaches?

I cleared my throat, readying a question I hoped would cheer her up.

"How's the play coming along?"

Gemma blanched.

"The… play?"

"Yes, you said you've already started work on the play for this coming spring, right?"

"Oh, right, er, it's going fine."

Gemma was a good actress, but, like me, not a very convincing liar.

I narrowed my eyes at her, wishing I could discern what she was hiding without having to ask. I was so nervous about the notebook clutched in my hand, however, I decided to take a stab at it, if only to give my mind something else to chew on.

"So, what's the play about?"

"What's it…about? Well…uh…"

Gemma bit her lip. "We haven't got all the details worked out exactly. It's still a work in progress."

"Oh, I see."

A frustratingly vague answer. Very unlike her. I knew for sure now she was hiding something, but what?

"You know, it's, it's not _technically_ the spring play," Gemma said finally, wrapping a strand of her long brown hair round her finger.

"Oh? What do you mean?"

Gemma looked away.

"Don't make that face at me, Amelia."

"W-what face?"

"It's, well, it's sort of your evil chess face, if you must know."

"My evil… chess face?"

"Yes. I can't stand it. I mean, I promised I'd keep it a secret, but you'll probably find out sooner or later…"

"Gemma, what is it?" I stopped in the middle of the hall, my stomach turning a somersault.

Gemma took a step or two further, then turned round, fiddling with her glasses.

"Well, I _have_ been working on a play, honest. Just, uh, just not the school play."

I cocked my head, both curious and perplexed.

"Then, what is it exactly?"

She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Okay, but you can't tell anyone. You're sworn to secrecy on the river Styx, got it?"

"Um, got it."

She looked about before continuing.

"I've been helping Miss Bijou put together a show."

Her face brightened like it always did whenever she talked about theatre. I let myself relax a bit, and we resumed our walking.

"Miss Bijou's working on her own show?"

Not at all what I'd expected. Miss Bijou…I thought of Professor Xander's uptight assistant, glued to her clipboard and always a bit frazzled beneath her fashionable exterior, and found it hard to believe. But, I supposed, I didn't know much about the woman. I'd only ever met her a handful of times. And even then, she was almost always overshadowed by the famous director she worked under.

"We've been working on it since my first year, actually. Just here and there at first. But it's only now really nearing completion. That's why I've been so busy this week."

"But you didn't want anyone to know?"

"Yes. See, it's a secret, even from Professor Xander. When I would have regular practice, the two of us would stay behind, with a few others, and work on it. It's a one-woman show and it's brilliant, Amelia. Very artsy. Very Greek."

I tugged at one of my plaits. Gemma's words were reassuring, yet something still wasn't sitting right with me.

"But why all the secrecy?"

Gemma frowned, her eyes losing focus. She touched her brow as if she felt one of her headaches coming on.

My uneasiness grew once more, building, almost, to the same thunder-cloud height as the night we'd gone down in the cellar, right before all the hullabaloo with the patrol. Gemma had refused to go through the black hatch. She'd touched her forehead just as she was doing now and spoken of some memory, or dream, of going through the hatch when she was little. Darkening this incident even further was the older, yet still unsolved business of her finding her room overtaken by webs and spiders…the rumors of her connection to Araneae…the strange dreams she'd been having…

With all that was going on with granddad and the patrol and Dreycott, I hadn't taken much time to think about how Gemma, herself, had grown into quite the enigma.

Something else came back to me. How strange the Professor had looked the other day when she'd called us into her office. How she'd fixated upon Gemma.

Was Miss Bijou's play, somehow, connected to all the other mysteries surrounding her? Perhaps I was just being paranoid, but I couldn't quite shake the feeling. How had I never even caught a whiff of this secret play business?

"Amelia?"

I looked up at Gemma. Her frown had deepened to a bent slash.

"Huh?"

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Is it my evil chess face again?" I asked, somewhat jokingly.

"No, like…I dunno. Like you don't believe me."

"Of course I believe you. I'm just wondering why you had to keep it a secret."

"Miss Bijou doesn't want the Professor butting in. Any of the professors. I mean she's using some school resources and, technically, she's not supposed to, but this is her dream. She wants to write and direct, and if everything goes well with this, she'll ask Professor Xander if we can perform it."

Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I-I'm just surprised you were able to keep it a secret for so long, that's all."

Gemma scowled and turned away from me.

"That's not fair, Amelia. I can keep secrets when I want to. Miss Bijou specifically told me to keep it a secret, so don't tell anyone, not even Clive or Trewinkle."

I still had several questions, but I decided to drop them for now as Gemma was starting to look cross.

Besides, we had finally reached the dead-end corridor. As if to further dissuade me from any more questions, she strode ahead and swung open the portrait, quickly tapping in the answer to the riddle.

 _Silence._

I glanced around to make sure no patrollers lingered. Most were still recovering from their late-night party, I supposed. Hoped.

After stuffing myself under Professor Rosen's desk, I had little desire to enter an equally cramped tunnel, but Gemma was already down the stairs, just barely visible by the light of her torch. With a sigh, I hurried after her.

Just as she'd said, Clive and Bernard were waiting for us in the room at the tunnel's end, which was as dim and forlorn as always, its collection of mismatched, dripping candles keeping the darkness at bay.

Clive stood as soon as he saw us.

"Yes, don't worry," I said, holding up my notebook, "I got it."

He sank back into his seat.

"I was going to ask about you, actually."

"Oh. Well. I'm fine."

Bernard's finger tapped restlessly against his forearm, his eyes fixed upon the floor. I would have loved to see his reaction to my asking about the fight, but now was not the time. I sat down across from the two, paging through my notebook until I reached the hastily scrawled letter.

Gemma sat next to Clive, looking as gloomy as Bernard for once.

I glanced between the three. Swallowed.

"Ready?"

Silence answered me. Three pairs of eager eyes fixed upon my notebook.

"Alright…"

And just as I had done at Mr. Crimp's cottage several nights earlier, I cleared my throat and began to read:

 _Abigail,_

 _It is nearly done. Soon your family will be exposed for what it truly is, and I will have claimed my rightful inheritance. Everything has been building to this. The grand finale. And you must remember your part._

 _I will reiterate once more that you are to not interfere with the events that will transpire at the Winter Gala. They are preordained, inevitable, and will be a fitting end to this school. The Statue will make her final appearance, and do you know whose fears she will reveal? Yours, Abigail. She will destroy every lie that you, your grandfather, and your entire family have built this school upon. And when the truth is known, you will be left with nothing._

 _If you try to hinder the gala in any way, you know what will happen. Your granddaughter will suffer immeasurably, as will any other pupil or teacher who tries to help you._

 _As for Trewinkle, tell him his work is nearly complete. I require one final batch of serum which he will deliver to the fourth floor at midnight, October 1_ _st_ _. Remind him that his son's life is also in my hands. I will not hesitate to take drastic measures if he tries to worm his way out of our deal again._

 _Finally, there is the matter of the private investigator. I told you to get rid of him and, yet, you didn't listen. His demise will be punishment enough. All in good time, of course. Him and that fool Amos._

 _Oh, don't worry. He is still alive. For now. Until his use runs out. Remember this._

 _Soon the labyrinth will be opened, Abigail. Araneae will be released, and the truth with her, like the flames that engulfed these halls so many centuries ago. The destruction of this school will be complete. I look forward to seeing the terror in your eyes._

 _Faithfully,_

 _The Last Dreycott._

A deathly silence hung over the room, a gray-black funeral shroud that seemed to rob the candlelight of its warmth, dimming the words before my eyes.

Even so, I read through the letter again and again, quietly now, though something like a scream ripped through my mind and body. That it was written in my own hand only sharpened my sense of alarm, as if _I_ were the one issuing threats.

"The Last Dreycott."

I looked up, blinking back a surge of light-headedness until I realized it was Clive who had spoken. His face looked as pale as the pages in my hand, "So it's true. The family is involved somehow."

"But how?" Gemma sputtered, "Aren't they all gone? Dead? Let me see that!"

I handed her the notebook and watched her pour over the letter, eyes jumping from line to line.

"It could be that whoever wrote this letter only wants the Professor to believe they're a Dreycott," Clive replied, "Still, they must have some connection to the family…"

I tugged at my hair, overwhelmed. Clive was already drawing conclusions from the letter, when I had barely begun to process it. So much to take in, so many threads of the mystery wound together on a single page.

It was true, though, that the signer of the letter was perhaps the most important bit of information. The most cryptic, too. If I focused on that for now, then maybe the web could be undone without my mind getting hopelessly ensnared.

The Last Dreycott…

I quickly sorted through what little pieces of the Dreycott family history we'd managed to collect.

The family had founded Dreycott School, of course. For several centuries, they'd been rich and powerful throughout London. The bearers of the oculus sapphire, a stone as famous as their name and rumored to give the wearer glimpses into the future. But something had happened, something some said had to do with the "family curse", while others spoke, instead, of a tragic fire.

At any rate, the family had eventually lost everything, owing to rumors of connections with criminal activity, like the Blue Aster, and bad investments, crowned by the mysterious suicide of Hyacinth Dreycott.

All this had led to the school's closure as the family slipped into obscurity. Eventually, Professor Rosen's grandfather had reopened the school. And even though it appeared his family, the Rosen's, were bitter rivals with the Dreycotts, he had invited the last heirs, Peter and Marcy Dreycott, to attend.

Peter and Abigail had grown to be friends, alongside Amos Crimp. They'd tried to uncover the secrets of their families' rivalry, of the labyrinth supposedly hidden under the school and the sapphire. The letters I'd found scattered about the school had attested to all this. It seemed, however, that the four children had never succeeded. Mr. Crimp had told us Peter died in his late teens. He'd taken his life just like Hyacinth. But Marcy…

"Do you think it's possible, somehow, that one survived…in secret?" I asked.

The Last Dreycott…surely such a title alluded to the last surviving member of the family.

"I think I might know who," Bernard said quietly, as if reading my mind. "We know that Peter died, but what about Marcy, Peter's sister? According to those letters between Abigail and Peter I've been studying, she was very ill, but we've never had any confirmation of her death."

"Mr. Crimp said that Peter was the last of the Dreycotts," Clive said.

"As far as he knew," Bernard countered, "Or else he was keeping something from us. Alternately, whoever wrote this letter is lying, like you said. Their word is hardly proof. They could just be using the name 'Last Dreycott' for their own purposes."

Gemma stood up impatiently, waving the notebook about for extra emphasis.

"Never mind all that now. What about the other stuff? The Statue? The Winter Gala? Mr. Crimp? Your _dad_ , Trewinkle!? Did you know he was caught up in all this?"

Bernard scowled, his ears tinging a dangerous red.

"Let's calm down," I said, glancing between the three of them, "Try to take this one step at a time."

"Yes..."

Clive closed his eyes, hand clasped to his chin. "So, according to this letter, this Last Dreycott, whoever they are, is the one behind the Statue," he paused, "As we suspected, they're using it to enact revenge on the Rosen family. To try and expose some unsavory information about them, it seems. It looks like the feud between the two families is still alive and well, even if the Dreycotts aren't."

"So, the Winter Gala…that's where all of this finally comes to a head."

No wonder the Professor had seemed so nervous when she'd stood on stage, announcing how the school's anniversary would be celebrated. The whole event was designed as a stage for the Statue's final appearance.

I shuddered. I hadn't allowed myself to think about Hyacinth, really think about her, in a long time. But that night in the rotunda, when Clive and I had encountered the stone girl up close, when she'd touched Clive with mottled hands and made his deepest fears spark to life, was still as fresh in my mind as if I had only just escaped the burning rotunda, smoking writhing in my lungs. She still stood at the center of this mystery, after all this time, still unexplainable, still terrifying. Appearing at increasingly random times and places, or so it seemed: the premiere of Gemma's play, the masquerade, in the early hours of the morning, revealing fear after fear. A queen striking swiftly on the chessboard. But now we knew for sure her actions were not random in the slightest. A chess-player, a seasoned master, had been moving her about all along.

"The final act…" Gemma murmured, "The labyrinth opened. Araneae released…"

She slowly sank back into her seat, suddenly pale, and passed the notebook on to Clive. "What are we going to do? I mean, great, we have all this information. But this Last Dreycott sounds like they've got the school squashed under their thumb. I mean, we can be sure Felix and his boys are working for him…or her. Mr. Harrier, too. Who knows who else?"

"They want the labyrinth opened," I mused, "Just like us. That's probably why Felix took the sapphire keys from us. To hand them over to the Last Dreycott."

"Well, Hyacinth did mention the oculus sapphire," Clive replied, skimming the letter, "Perhaps this person wants to enter the labyrinth to find it. Isn't that what Vivian told you? That the sapphire could be hidden in the labyrinth? Who knows? It could even be this 'rightful inheritance' they're going on about."

"You think the Last Dreycott has our keys, now?" Gemma asked, "But, then, there's still that riddle. You think whoever-they-are could solve it?"

So many questions… as always, each new step closer to the truth opened new doors, doors that lead to even darker passages then the ones we currently stumbled through.

"At least, we know how the Professor is being controlled now," I said, trying to remain pragmatic and pick up on the information most useful to us, "Her granddaughter, whoever she is."

I paused, remembering something. "Come to think of it, Mr. Harrier mentioned her right before he left. He saw her on his way into the school. If only we knew…"

"And at least we know Mr. Crimp is alive," Gemma said weakly, "But Jeremy…"

"Did he end up tailing Mr. Harrier?" I asked.

Clive ran a hand through his hair.

"As far as I know."

It was all so much to take in we could only sit there, minds reeling like a toppled carousel, passing the letter round, reading it over and over and over.

Gemma was right. We finally had the information we needed. But what to do with it? How to put a stop to someone who controlled the school from the shadows?

"We need to take this letter to the police," I said.

Clive sighed.

"But it's not a letter. It something you've written in your notebook. We still don't have the proof we need. And even if we did, would the police listen? They haven't gotten involved up until now, after all. There's a reason for that."

"So, we're supposed to…to stop this person all by ourselves?" I asked, unable to hide the small crack in my voice.

"Hasn't that always been the plan?" Clive's gaze was unwavering.

I bit back fiery words.

 _It was until I watched you being beaten. Until we barely escaped that fire in the rotunda. Until I stepped into Mr. Crimp's house. Saw how terrible the consequences could be for interfering…_

"What then?" I stood, glaring up at him, face burning, "What do we do?"

Clive skimmed through the letter again, looking detached and grimmer than ever.

"We need to speak with your dad, Bernard."

Bernard's eyebrows flew up like startled owls. He hadn't spoken in a long time and I wondered what he was thinking about. I wasn't long in finding out.

"What? Why? If you think you'll get any useful information out of him you're wrong. He won't talk. Not even to me. I've tried. He'd probably turn us over to this Last Dreycott. Anything to save his own skin."

Bernard's expression remained impassive, but his trembling hands betrayed him.

"How can you say that?" Gemma cried, "He's your _dad_. I'm sure he's trying to protect you."

Bernard fixed cold, burning eyes upon her.

"What do _you_ know about it?"

"But if we try all together," I countered, "And I can ask him about that letter I delivered to him last term. The one from Professor Rosen? I'm sure it ties into everything."

"We need to figure out what his role is in all of this," Clive agreed, "And perhaps he can give us more information on the Last Dreycott. Anyway, I –"

His words died in an instant. Eyes flashing, he sat up straighter, stiffening.

I froze. All except my heart, which jumped in my chest.

"What is it?"

"S _hh!_ "

Clive nodded towards the tunnel, all cobwebs and gloam. And then I heard it. Footsteps.

Gemma stood up, panic flashing in her own eyes.

"Someone followed us?"

"Hide," I hissed, scrambling out of my chair.

But before any of us could do much of anything, two figures stumbled from the tunnel – Cathy and Kate, blinking in the light of the candles.

The four of us were all stood now and for a moment, we blinked back at the two reporters, as if we were no more than mirror images.

As always, I couldn't help but be amused at the contrast between Cathy and her photographer. Kate stood even shorter than Bernard with a stocky build and a mane of sandy hair, while Cathy was slender, tall, and well-trimmed as always.

"Hope we're not interrupting anything," she said, the first to regain composure, as usual. She glanced about the room in distaste, as if she had been expecting a posh hotel suite.

My heartbeat settled. When was the last time I'd seen the reporter? At the masquerade? She'd asked Clive if he'd be willing to report for the Daily Dreycott. He'd accepted, but I'd wondered if she was up to something – something other than publishing a paper stuffed full of tabloid-worthy gossip and rumors, that is.

"What – " Clive began.

"How – " Gemma added.

"What are you doing here?" Bernard finished, glowering up at Cathy, "You're not welcome here."

"It's school property, isn't it?" Cathy shot back, "You're trespassing just as much as I am."

"Not to mention, we're reporters," Kate added, casually munching on a chocolate bar she'd pulled from her camera bag. She waved it in her hand dismissively, "We go where we want."

"You followed us out of curiosity, then, I assume," Clive said, folding his arms.

Cathy smirked, candlelight glinting off her dark, cropped hair.

"Not quite. You see, I'm looking for a quiet corner to grow a new paper."

"A new paper?" I said, thinking back to what the two patrollers had told me the other day, "But I heard –"

Cathy scoffed.

"Come, now, Amelia. You _really_ thought I would put up working for that insipid brat? After she stole my own paper? Juliet can have the Daily Dreycott for all I care. It's time for the Dreycott Underground to rise from the shadows and expose this school's corrupt administration once and for all."

Cathy's expression had contorted to barely concealed disgust. She reached into her bag and pulled out a newspaper, waving it in front of us.

"Here's her first issue, by the by."

Gemma snatched the paper from her.

"'Notorious Pupil Forms Anti-Patrol Gang'," she read. She squinted closer, "Wait, is that us?"

"What?"

Clive, Bernard, and I crowded about her. Next to the article was a blurry black and white photo of the four of us huddled at the usual table in the dining hall.

"Infamous delinquent, Clive Dove," she began to read, "Alongside his girlfriend, Amelia Ruth, and their devious cohorts, Gemma Mudget and Bernard Trewinkle, have joined forced to resist and subvert the Patrol's authority and cause chaos around our beloved school. Just last week the four defied patrol orders, sneaking down to the cellar after curfew and violently engaging the patrollers who attempted to reason with them. All pupils are encouraged to avoid this dangerous gang and report their activity to your friendly Head Girl or Head – this is – this is absolute rubbish!"

The paper crackled in Gemma's tightening grip.

My own face was burning, although I think I was more mortified by the off-hand 'girlfriend' comment than anything else.

"Why would they allow a nine-year-old to write the front-page article?" Bernard mused.

"Juliet wrote it," Gemma replied dazedly, missing the note of sarcasm in his voice.

"It's just as Felix told us," Clive said, frustration and disgust hardening his expression, "He plans on making life for us here a living hell. Juliet's just doing her part through a nice bit of yellow journalism."

"It's awful, I know," Cathy said, "That's why I want to start a rival paper, an underground one, to let everyone know what's _really_ going on."

"But I thought you were all about unfounded gossip," Bernard said, shooting another glare up at her, "This is just the sort of story your Daily Dreycott would run, isn't it?"

Cathy chuckled.

"Nothing gets past you, does it, Trewinkle?" she folded her arms and looked away, off into the tunnel, as her voice grew quiet, "I've been biding my time. You see, I thought if my paper only printed silly stories and rumors, the patrol would leave it alone until it was really needed. Until I was ready. Then, I could start publishing my real investigative work."

"Your real investigative work? So, all those other stories were just a cover?" I asked, unable to hide the bit of skepticism in my voice.

"Correct."

"And what exactly is this investigative work of yours?" Clive asked.

A wily smile crept to Cathy's lips.

"While you four have been wasting your time digging into Dreycott's past, I've been focused on the present. On the Patrol. Their lives outside the school, skeletons' in their families' closets, the hush money paid under the table to get them bumped up into the Patrol's highest ranks. Everything I need to turn each and every one of them against each other and expose this school's sad naked underbelly once and for all."

Cathy turned her steel gaze fully on Clive, "I'd still like your help, Clive. There's one person I'd like you to expose for yourself."

"And who would that be?" Clive asked, though the catch in his voice told me he already knew.

"Felix. He has a secret. Something that could utterly decimate his hold here at Dreycott. Something connected to…to what happened that day."

"October 19th," Clive said quietly.

"Wait, what happened October 19th?" Gemma asked, "Felix mentioned that date, too…"

I felt a peculiar desire for the floorboards beneath my feet to turn to jelly and suck me down.

Clive and Cathy shared a significant look.

"Never mind that now," she said. Then to Clive, her voice softening, "Just think about it, alright?"

Clive's eyes drifted to the side of the room.

"I will," he hesitated, "And your free to use this room if you'd like. You're right, it doesn't belong to us."

"What?"

The word popped out before I could stop it. I didn't trust Cathy. Didn't want her skulking around here. I knew it was more than that, though. I hated that she seemed to know all about October 19th, while I was still in the dark. "Shouldn't we all have a say in this?"

"She's found the place, now, hasn't she?" Clive said, "Besides, we're hardly ever down here."

"Let's take a vote!" Gemma cut in.

I glared at Clive.

"I vote 'no'."

"I vote we all relax," Cathy folded her arms, "You're letting that paper work you into a lather, Amelia. Be rational about this."

I fixed my glare on her, a venomous heat prickling my face. My stomach clenched, and my whole body stiffened, like a tree rooting itself in place deep in the earth, even as fire peppered my leaves.

"I'm being perfectly rational. You can't just barge down here and start ordering people around. We have enough to worry about right now without adding _you_."

"Amelia, what's gotten into you?"

Again, I let my glare fall on Clive. He was studying me with a mixture of frustration and concern, which, for some reason, made my face burn even hotter. Word boiled with in me, so blistering they scalded my mind, my tongue, sending red tremors down my arms, into my clanging heart.

"What's gotten into me? _I'm_ not the one keeping secrets."

I bit my lip, but it was too late. The frustration in his eyes flared to anger and hurt.

" _Ahem!_ Does anyone want a calming rectangle of chocolate?" Kate broke in, inching towards the tunnel.

Gemma put a hand on my shoulder.

"Let's all sit down and –"

I shrugged her off as Cathy started in again

"Look, Amelia, I'm doing you all a favor writing this paper."

"Doing us a _favor_? What does that even mean? All you care about is –"

"Rectangle of chocolate! Get your free rectangle!"

Clive took a step forward.

"Amelia, if you would just listen –"

"We can't trust her."

Gemma put a hand on my shoulder again.

"Take a deep breath –"

Clive's eyes narrowed.

"Or maybe _you_ won't trust _me_."

A dagger pang in my chest.

"Of course, I trust you, that's not –"

Cathy cleared her throat.

"Just let me explain what my new paper –"

"Everyone, take a deep –"

"Rectangle!"

"Shut up, all of you! I'm dying!"

Silence fell over the room. We turned to Bernard, standing at the mouth of the tunnel, chest heaving.

"Do any of you even know what you're really bickering about?" he scoffed, "Of course not. Just keep talking right past each other. But guess what? I don't have to stand around and listen to this. Any of it. Not that anyone cares what I have to say…"

Bernard started down the tunnel without any light source to guide him, muttering under his breath until he vanished into the darkness.

For a moment, the five of us were too stunned to speak, then Cathy tutted.

"A bit stressed eh?"

"It's his dad," Gemma sighed, her thumbnail drifting to her mouth, "Poor Trewinkle. But I don't think things will get any better unless they talk."

"The rumor is this place has direct access to the patroller lounge," Cathy went on, ignoring her, stepping past us to pat at the back wall.

No one answered, but she didn't seem to mind. She took a notebook from her bag and began scribbling in in it.

"Well, I can see you three need to talk some things through. Kate and I will just be moving some equipment. I'm sure nobody would mind us storing a few odds and ends down here, at least."

She finally looked up from her notebook, casting a significant look at me, before pivoting on her heel and slipping back into the tunnel with Kate at her side.

We slowly sank back into our seats. For several minutes, none of us said a word. My anger was already starting to subside, replaced by a raw emptiness that might have been regret. It made me even more aware of the phantom stab in my chest. Clive thought I didn't trust him. That wasn't true…of course it wasn't true.

Was it?

"What's our next move?" Gemma finally ventured.

I knew she was addressing Clive. I didn't dare look up at him.

"We talk with Mr. Trewinkle," he replied in a low voice, "Try to learn more about the Last Dreycott."

"I'm still worried about Jeremy," Gemma said, "Think he'll be alright?"

"We're just going to have to trust that he knows what he's doing. And that he won't try anything stupid."

Gemma stood again, her worry, as usual, translating into nervous energy.

"Alright, well, I'm going to go talk to Trewinkle, see if I can't get him on board. Erm, and maybe you two should talk or something… maybe? But anyway…see you later!"

Before either of us could reply, she'd scooped up her torch and darted into the tunnel.

 _No…._

The word curdled inside me, whiny and pitiful, as I watched her go. She'd left me alone with Clive.

Even as I thought this, I couldn't help but glance at him, sitting on the other side of the room. My eye caught his for a second and then I looked away, cheeks burning.

A soft scribbling told me he'd resumed writing in his notebook. Apparently, he was as eager to follow Gemma's advice as I. With a sigh, I picked up my own notebook and turned to the letter. I didn't read it, my eyes frosting aimlessly over the words. All the while my mind turned to madly generating the right thing to say.

As much as I hated to admit it, Gemma was right. We needed to talk before things got any more out of hand. And I knew I needed to be the one to ignite the conversation, even as a voice inside me kept blaring the unfairness of it all. That Clive needed to be the one to start, not me. That all his secret-keeping had gotten us into this mess in the first place. All his fault. If he'd only been honest with me from the start…

I felt something harden within me. That old Ruth stubbornness that made me so good with chess and so bad with people. But I pushed past it, anyway, still searching for something to say.

 _So, Cathy mentioned October 19_ _th_ _again and so I was wondering…_

 _Clive, I need to talk to you about something…_

 _Before we go, can I say something…_

Even as I tried out the words in my head, I tossed them away, hating how stiff they sounded without even having to be spoken.

Maybe I couldn't think about it. Maybe I simply needed to open my mouth and let them flow of their own accord.

Even as I thought this, I knew it wouldn't work. That as desperately as I wanted to speak, the words were hopelessly stuck, mired in stubbornness and worry, too. Of how he'd look at me. How he'd respond. And what if I only made things worse? What if whatever I said only proved I really didn't trust him?

Clive cleared his throat. I felt a surge of hope.

"Well, I should probably get to lunch, now."

The surge dive-bombed in my chest, nearly knocking me from my chair.

"O-oh."

I stood, seeing a chance of escape and taking it before I could stop myself. "I guess I should, too."

We blew out the candles, gathered our things, and headed into the tunnel, all without a single word.

It wasn't too late, I knew. I could still say something. As we neared the end of the tunnel, the desire burned brighter within me, but still the words wouldn't come.

Clive's torch caught the square button that opened the wall panel. He pressed it and we waited for daylight to flood the steps.

 _Come on…just do it…_

"I'll go first."

 _Just open your mouth…_

He cautiously peered out, then beckoned me to follow.

 _And say you're sorry…_

We stepped out into the hallway, the panel sliding shut behind us.

 _Do it_ now _!_

I felt I was deep underwater, nearly crushed by a pressure that made lifting my hand and putting it on his shoulder seem like I was moving through solid ocean.

But there it was.

Clive glanced at the hand, surprise lifting his eyebrows.

"Clive, wait, I-I need to –"

For a second, he tilted his head, and I thought the words would finally escape. But then his eyes slid past mine, to the floor and I swallowed them back.

"I think we really do need to talk with Mr. Trewinkle."

Now wasn't the right time, I tried telling myself. We needed to focus on following up on the letter.

"It's Saturday…" Clive mused, "I wonder if he's here today? Well, let's get to lunch and then we'll see if we can't find him."

As he spoke, we headed off to the dining hall at a brisk, business-like pace. Clive walked just a step ahead of me, as if to further deter any chance of speaking with him.

With a scowl, I dropped another step behind him and decided to cast my frustrated mind elsewhere.

To Bernard and his dad.

My situation with Clive didn't seem near so bad when I considered those two. I only wished I knew more about the deep animosity that festered between them. As it stood, I'd only gathered snippets. The two were certainly different. Bernard was solid as rock, while his dad seemed flighty as wren. But it wasn't just their personalities that lay at the root of their conflict. I knew Bernard was upset at how distant his father was – the long hours he worked, and how he had brushed aside his own son's attempts at telling him about his encounter with the Statue.

I also wondered, as I sometimes did, about Bernard's mother. I think he'd mentioned once she was a doctor in some far-flung place, but he'd been so deadpan when he'd spoken of her, I'd wondered if he'd been joking.

His mother aside, the letter from the Last Dreycott had shed a new and troubling light on their relationship. Somehow, Mr. Trewinkle was caught up in the plot at Dreycott, the threat of some shadowy figure hurting Bernard hanging always over his head. Perhaps that was what had exacerbated things between them. Maybe Mr. Trewinkle was merely being so distant to keep Bernard safe.

It was only a hunch, but it gave me a shot of hope that he could be reasoned with and that maybe, just maybe, Bernard could mend things a bit in the process. Of course, we'd need to convince Bernard to speak with his father before anything else.

The scent of warm bread wafting from the dining hall drew me back to the present. After getting our trays, we headed for the usual table. Before we reached it, however, snatches of Gemma and Bernard reached our ears, slowing our steps.

"No. Stop saying you understand, because, obviously, you don't. He's not going to tell us anything."

"But how do you know? Look, when was the last time you two even had a decent conversation with each other?"

"Frankly, that's irrelevant and none of your business, so just –"

Bernard finally noticed the two of us creeping toward the table and stopped mid-sentence, his ears going pink.

"Here to join the debate?" he said, "I suppose all three of you will gang up on me and I'll have no choice."

"Of course, we won't!" Gemma countered, "But if you would just stop being so stubborn for just a second."

"Is any opinion you don't agree with 'stubbornness'? I could just as easily call you stubborn, then."

"We're not going to force you," I said, gently, sitting down next to Gemma, "But we do need answers from him and…well, you'd know the best how to get them."

"Listen," Bernard said, "If my dad's being manipulated like Professor Rosen, then he's not going to have a smidge of willpower to resist it. Trying to get answers out of him will be useless."

"Well, that's rather…rather a bit harsh," I said.

"It's true," Bernard's gold-brown eyes bore into mine, "My dad doesn't _do_ confrontation. 'Don't rock the boat, Bernard'. That's what he always says. 'Don't _rattle_ the chemistry set.'"

He looked away, his voice dropping to a mutter. "All I know how to do is rattle things."

"Then we won't confront him," Clive said.

I glanced at him, puzzled.

"We won't?" Gemma asked.

"We'll persuade him."

That sharp, wily smile crept onto his lips for the first time in a while. I was surprised at how glad I was to see it.

"Persuade him how?" I asked, slightly concerned.

"With our research. With what's at stake. And if he talks, brilliant. We'll gain some much-needed information. And if he doesn't? We won't be any worse off than we are now."

"It's the most logical thing to do," Gemma agreed.

Bernard's scowl deepened.

"Don't talk to me about logic, Miss-Tried-To-Put-a-Rainbow-in-a-Test-Tube."

"That was _one_ time," Gemma said, "And that's beside the point. If we're really trying to solve things here, then we need to find out what your dad is up to."

I could see the strain in Bernard's face, the internal war waging within him, causing his brow to twitch and furrow as he bore holes into his untouched lunch, arms crossed tightly over his jumper.

"Please, TW," Gemma said, putting a gentle hand on Bernard's shoulder, "He's probably really worried about you."

"Worried…about me?"

I winced as Bernard looked up at her, conflicted expression hardening to resolve. "He's _worried_ about me, is he? Keeping his distance to protect me, eh?" His frown nearly twisted to a sneer, "Alright, let's go. I'm ready, now. I think it's time you all met my dad."

The three of us glanced to one another with rather the same apprehensive expressions. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all?

"Well?" Bernard said, "Changed your minds, have you?"

"Bernard, er, is he here today?" I asked.

"Highly likely. We have a flat across town, but he doesn't go home much. Doesn't really _believe_ in weekends."

"Excellent," Clive said, "It's settled, then."

"Settled," Bernard muttered, as we turned our attention back to our lunches, "Just you wait. Nothing settled about it."

By the time we'd finished eating, we were all well and quiet, thinking about how best to approach Mr. Trewinkle. All except Gemma, who preferred to do her thinking out loud and shared her thoughts the entire way to the school laboratory.

"I can't believe I've never met your dad before, Trewinkle," she mused, "I mean I've seen him loads of times, but I've never really talked to him because, well, he never gives me the chance. He kinda reminds me of a scared mouse, always dashing into its hole. Oh, but I hope he doesn't actually have a hole he can dash into, but just in case, we should check the lab for hidden passageways…"

"Shame evolution doesn't occur quicker," Bernard muttered, "Then maybe my ears would fall off to adapt to my hostile environment."

The door to the lab was shut tight when we arrived. Gemma, nearly fit to burst with excitement, reached it first and left a solid knock on its surface. There came no reply save for a faint, hasty clinking.

She bent down, poking an eye into the narrow keyhole.

"Mr. Trewinkle? You in there?"

There was a soft syllable, a panicked " _uhua!_ " from beyond the door.

"Interpret that, please, T-W?" Gemma asked over her shoulder.

Bernard shrugged.

"Please come in and bother me with incessant questions," he translated.

"Good enough for me!"

Gemma cracked the door open, stepping in with her usual familiar manner.

"Hullo, Mr. Trewinkle, we'd like to…oh."

The door swung wide. Mr. Trewinkle stood looking up in surprise from a table spread with a monochromatic array. Sickly test tubes, beakers, cylinders, microscopes, and other severe-looking items I had no names for littered the surface.

"Experiment time, huh?" Gemma said, bobbing closer, curiosity brightening her eyes.

"Helllllllo," Mr. Trewinkle said in a cautious voice, stretching out his "L's" as if he wished to say a quite different word. He stayed glued to his table, hands nervously wringing, his watery eyes darting behind translucent goggles, like fish in a bowl.

The fish went past Gemma, to Clive standing behind her, then to me, and finally Bernard. Mr. Trewinkle's scraggly eyebrows nearly jumped from his forehead.

"Oh! Bernard."

I couldn't tell if the presence of his son had a calming effect on him or just the opposite.

Bernard pushed past the three of us, eyes dead as stone, mouth small and puckered, his own brows looking even heavier than normal. His expression was already quite closed off by default, but now, facing his dad, it was as though he wore impenetrable armor.

"Dad, we need to talk to you."

The words hung in the air a second, stiff and severe. On the table something yellow-green bubbled, encased in glass.

"You…need to talk to me, Bernard?" Mr. Trewinkle waved his hands at all his equipment, "As you can see, I am a bit busy right now. Can it wait?"

"No, _I_ don't need to talk to you. _We_ do. All four of us."

Clive and I finally stepped into the lab. It was the same as I'd remembered it, with its long tables, heavy cabinets, and a row of gleaming silver sinks. But I saw no more white mice stirring in the cage by the window and the webs that were strung from the ceiling seemed to have grown thicker, like swaths of cotton. Even as I noticed this, a silver spider dropped from a thread of silk near my shoe and darted into a crack in the floor.

"Well, as I said, I'm a bit busy," Mr. Trewinkle gave his son a gently stern look, though his darting eyes foiled any authority it might have held, "You know Saturdays are when I like to carry out personal research, Bernard."

"It's about that letter I delivered to you a while back," I said, thinking back to the day in question as I spoke. That day, Professor Rosen had invited me into her inner circle of patrollers, those lucky few allowed to perform top-secret errands. Unfortunately, I only ever completed one of these errands, giving Mr. Trewinkle a letter from the Professor. He'd seemed so nervous when he'd looked it over. So fearful… Had it really been a message from the Last Dreycott?

"Letter?" Mr. Trewinkle's eyes widened. He pushed his goggles up his forehead, dislodging his curly brown hair in the process, "Oh! You. You're the little patrol girl," he scratched his beard, "Yes, that letter. That. What about it? Only a memo, my dear. Nothing you four need concern yourself with – "

"We're not entirely convinced of that, Mr. Trewinkle," Clive said, "We don't mean to take you from your work, but we have something very important we need to discuss with you. Something I think will be beneficial to all of us."

Mr. Trewinkle's eyes continued to widen.

"Bernard," he sputtered quietly, "Bernard, what is the meaning of this!?"

Bernard folded his arms.

"We know what's been going on at the school, dad. And we know you're caught up in it."

Mr. Trewinkle paled.

"G-going on at the school? Whatever are you on about, Bernard?"

"Well, let's see. To start, the Statue that's been terrorizing pupils."

Mr. Trewinkle relaxed slightly. He turned back to his work, holding up a beaker of viscous liquid at eye level and tilting it slightly. He frowned. "All pranks. That's what the professor said. Yes. The pupils responsible have been caught. Nothing to worry about."

"Which would be reassuring," I said, "If the Professor wasn't lying."

"Yeah, she's being blackmailed," Gemma added, "And you are, too, _aren't_ you, Mr. Trewinkle?"

I couldn't help but wince. This was getting a little too close to confrontational.

Mr. Trewinkle's hands shook as he poured the contents of the beaker into a larger container and began to stir it.

"Children, I'm afraid I just don't have time for these wild stories."

"But – but we want to help you," Gemma said, "Trewin – Bernard's been so worried about you, can't you at least – "

"Mudget."

Bernard's ears flamed a red that crept into his face. His dark eyes mirrored the clear warning tone in his voice. Gemma shrank back a bit.

"I'm just trying to help."

Bernard glared at her, then Clive, then me.

 _Stand back_ , his expression conveyed, _I'll handle this_.

We did as he said, stepping away from the table as Bernard set his palms flat on its surface.

"Dad."

Mr. Trewinkle sighed, his hands flying over the table like fingers on a keyboard, jotting things down on a clipboard, fingering vials, bending over to squint into his microscope.

"Bernard, I really don't –"

Bernard slammed his hands on the table, rattling its contents.

"Would you look up from the damn chemistry set and listen to me?"

Silence fell over the lab, save for whatever was bubbling. Mr. Trewinkle stopped his feverish work in favor of wringing his hands. Still, he did not look up, his eyes shut tight.

"I know I've been busy, Bernard," he said quietly, "That's why you're acting out, isn't it? But if you would just give me a little time. I promise I'll figure things out here and get a handle on my work and –"

"You think I'm saying all this just to get your attention?"

Bernard's eyes bore harder into his father. "You need to tell us what's going on. Right now."

Mr. Trewinkle finally lifted his head, fixing Bernard with wavering brown eyes ringed with heavy circles. He stroked his beard.

"This…this is about your mother, isn't it? I know she hasn't been writing you lately…"

Bernard's eyebrows flared and the gold-brown of his eyes melted to molten tears. He quickly blinked them away.

"Oh. I see. So, so, _now_ you want to talk about mum. Of course, you do," Bernard's voice came out thick and hoarse now, "Because that subject doesn't seem near so scary when you're trying to keep quiet on whatever's going on here."

Mr. Trewinkle blinked.

"I don't talk about her for your sake. I didn't think you wanted to talk about her. But if things aren't going well…"

"You're still deflecting, dad. This isn't about mum."

"Bernard, you don't understand, I'm trying –"

"You're trying. You're always trying something, but you never get anywhere. Not with mum, not with –"

"I'm trying to protect you!"

It was the loudest I'd ever heard Mr. Trewinkle speak. His chest heaved as if the exertion was so foreign to his body it needed to work double-time to accommodate.

"I'm trying to protect you," he repeated, softer.

Something twitched in Bernard's expression, something small and fragile that looked as though it wanted to break through the solid bronze. Father and son stood gazing at one another, open-mouthed, waiting, it seemed, for the other to speak. Finally, as the silence dragged on, the waver in Bernard's eyes died and his countenance hardened to rock.

"You're trying…to protect me?"

He shook his head, softly spitting out his next words like poisonous seeds, "And where were you when I saw that bloody statue the first time and the second time when I was nearly burned to death? Or when I was hauled up on stage or shoved in that bookcase or forced to hide three hours behind a toilet, so I wouldn't get pummeled or the time I had to watch every page ripped from my book or was sat and spit on and kicked and thrown around. Where were you, dad?"

Bernard looked around the lab. "In here? Well, I don't need your 'protection'. We're going to get to the bottom of things here with or without you, so either you start talking or we'll come back here tonight and take what we need."

With each word, Mr. Trewinkle seemed to shrink just a bit more. Finally, he shut his eyes again, his shoulders slumping until his oversized lab coat nearly slid from his skinny frame.

"You're so much like her, you know," he whispered, "Of course, you can take care of yourself. You've – you've always taken care of yourself, haven't you?"

"What other choice did I have?" Bernard trembled, wetness shining in his eyes once more, "Mum left, and you had your work. But enough of this. Are you going to help us or not? Look, I know about the Last Dreycott. I know someone's threatening my life. Keeping quiet isn't going to solve anything, dad. Haven't you learned that by now?"

Bernard had fixed his gaze squarely on his father, anger and disgust and just a glimmer of pleading all forged into a single penetrating glare. A challenge. One, it appeared, that was almost too much for Mr. Trewinkle to bear.

He looked away, blinking, looked back, eyes darting. And then out of the indecision, defeat. He sighed, locking eyes with Bernard for just a second before looking away.

"Well, I… I suppose I can't hope to keep it a secret any longer…" He nodded toward the door, "Lock it, please. And keep your voices down. The Patrol keeps careful eye on all of us teachers."

"You're going to talk with us?" Gemma asked, as Clive moved to bolt the door. She had been watching Bernard and his dad with something akin to surprised confusion.

"Yes," Mr. Trewinkle bobbed his head, "I shouldn't. You're only children, after all. But I know that look of yours, Bernard. That determined look. Why, I feel I don't have a choice."

"You don't," Bernard's glare remained locked on his father.

I cleared my throat, thinking now would be a good time to step in.

"Mr. Trewinkle, you're being forced to produce some kind of, er, serum, aren't you?"

Mr. Trewinkle tilted his head back slightly to gaze at the ceiling. When he spoke, his voice was so soft we all had to lean in to hear it over the bubbling of his experiment.

"I don't where you four have gotten your information, but…you're right. I've been…tasked with creating small batches of somnus serum right here in this lab."

"By order of the Last Dreycott," Clive confirmed.

Mr. Trewinkle lowered his chin, blinking in surprise.

"Why, yes. The orders are sent through the letters that Professor Rosen receives from Mr. Harrier. Sometimes other teachers receive instructions, too. The Professor copies those instructions out in letters of her own and the patrol delivers them to us."

"So, that letter I gave you…" I began.

"Yes," he sighed, hanging his head, "It wasn't just memo. It contained my 'instructions' for the term."

"And these instructions always come with threats, do they?" Gemma asked, tracing the rim of her glasses.

Mr. Trewinkle's head drooped until it was bent at such an angle I thought it would slide right off his neck.

"If I don't comply," he whispered feebly, "I was told Bernard would be hurt. In fact, he…" Mr. Trewinkle glanced at Bernard, "You were specifically singled out to…"

"To be one of the Statue's victims."

Bernard's eyes burned darkly as they drifted to the floor, his expression tightening.

"Bernard…I…that's why I don't want you involved in all this."

"It's a bit late for that, dad," Bernard replied, not bothering to glance up, "I don't think I've much of a choice now."

"Would it be alright if we saw the letter Amelia gave you?" Clive asked, "Do you still have it?"

"I do," Mr. Trewinkle shuffled over to his desk and rifled through his drawers, tossing papers and office supplies aside. "You see, Professor Rosen often leaves messages of her own at the bottom of the instructions. They're always coded, though, and I've been so swamped, I've yet to figure any of them out. Aha."

He straightened with a folded letter in his hand. Coming back round the desk, he handed it to Clive, who quickly unfolded it.

"'Four batches of serum to be delivered by June 1st'," he read, "'Failure to comply will result in harm to your son. My eye is on you. Signed, the Last Dreycott.'"

His eyes shifted to the bottom of the paper. I glanced over his shoulder and saw a jumble of letters written in small, neat print below the instructions.

"I believe the Professor is trying to reach out to us teachers," Mr. Trewinkle said, wringing his hands once more, "And to some of her students as well, especially her most trusted patrollers. Or she was. I think she worries it might be too dangerous, now. Whoever this Last Dreycott is, they have more then half of the Patrol working for them."

I thought back to the smattering of times I'd met with the Professor in her office. The meaningful glances she'd given me, the cryptic questions she'd asked. Had it really all been a silent plea for help? Was that why she had set up those elaborate Patrol tests? To find someone she trusted? And then she'd chosen me, allowed me in to her inner circle, only to kick me out when she felt the noose tightening round her throat…

"What I want to know," Gemma said, "Is what this somnus serum is you're making?"

That was another question tearing in my mind, one shared by all four of us. We turned our full attention to Mr. Trewinkle, who switched from wringing his hands to tugging at his lab-coat.

"Where to begin?" he muttered, "…You could say it is my life line right now."

"We don't care about that," Bernard put in, "What is the serum for?"

Mr. Trewinkle shut his eyes.

"Bernard, please, I'm – I'm getting there," he sighed, "An old formula…at first it was just curiosity…I never stopped to think someone had intentionally placed it in my desk…"

"What are you talking about?" Clive asked.

"A week after I was first hired at Dreycott, I found a piece of paper stuck to the bottom of one of my desk drawers. On it was scribbled a formula for a substance labeled 'somnus serum'."

His eyes drifted yet again to the ceiling, where the constellation of webs spanned the beams.

"The main component was the venom of the silver spiders that are rampant here at Dreycott. I was fascinated. And so, I attempted to recreate the serum myself, right here in this lab."

He paused.

"As I did so, I did a bit of poking around and discovered the serum was _old_. Centuries old. And it was created here at the school, before it was a school, I believe. By a very gifted alchemist named Silence Rosen."

The name worked a spell, until only the soft bubbling could be heard.

"Silence Rosen," I breathed, " _Rosen_?"

"If you're wondering if there's any relation to Professor Rosen, I haven't the slightest idea. It is quite an eerie coincidence, though, I must say."

"Do you know anything else about her?" Gemma asked.

Mr. Trewinkle stroked his beard.

"I did manage a bit of research. Apparently, she was far ahead of her time, interested in curing what back then was considered madness. Maladies of the mind. Though, of course, in the Middles Ages, the human mind was shrouded in mystery and misconceptions," his brow furrowed deeper, "Because of her experiments, she was held in high suspicion. There were some who accused her of being a witch, which lead to some sort of tragic end. Burned at the stake, more than likely, though I haven't found confirmation of that."

"And what was the purpose of the serum?" Bernard asked.

I noticed Clive had sat down at the edge of the table, reading Professor Rosen's letter intently, pen in hand, but I kept my focus on Mr. Trewinkle.

"I wondered that myself," Mr. Trewinkle said, "Until those first instructions arrived, congratulating me on re-creating the serum and asking for a larger quantity to be delivered at a certain time and place."

"'Asking' you, huh?" Gemma snorted.

Mr. Trewinkle wiped his brow.

"Something like that. Needless to say, I did as I was told. But that didn't stop me from digging deeper into the serum's purpose at the same time."

Drawing a trembling hand into his lab-coat pocket, Mr. Trewinkle pulled out a small glass vial with a rubber stopper. The liquid inside shone clear as water. "The next batch won't be ready for some time, but I do have a small sample on hand, if you'd like to see it."

"You sure that's not just filled from the tap?" Gemma asked, squinting at the vial.

"It's colorless, odorless, except perhaps a vaguely sweet scent, which goes for the taste as well…"

Bernard took the vial from his father, examining it with a cold and careful eye.

"Did you learn anything?"

"To my surprise, the serum appears to be nothing special. It has the properties of a mild sedative, or soporific, and is largely harmless. There are a few side effects, but…I really don't understand what this Last Dreycott could possibly be using it for."

"So, it's like a medieval sleep aid?" I mused, "That is odd."

Gemma tapped on Bernard's shoulder, "Can I see it?"

He sighed.

"If you promise not to drop it."

"Of course, I won't!"

She snatched it from him, turning it round in her hands.

"Ha!"

Clive stood, holding the letter aloft with a glint of fiendish triumph in his eye.

"You missed all of that, didn't you?" Bernard said.

"No, I was listening…" He smirked, "And also studying this message left by the Professor. It's a simple Caesar cipher."

"Caesar cipher?" I asked.

"Yes, Julius Caesar was rather fond of using it in his private letters and that's how it got its name. To use it, all you have to do is shift the letters a certain number of spaces."

"Really?" I peered over his shoulder at the letter, "But how do you know how far they've been shifted?"

"I didn't, not until now. But look," he showed the letter to us, "Does anything stand out to you about the first message? The one Rosen copied from the Last Dreycott?"

I squinted closer at the paper.

"Well, that R looks a bit bigger than all the other letters."

"Exactly. R for right. And then an "f" here, an "i", and—"

"And the "v" and the "e"," Bernard finished, "Five to the right."

"Exactly. Each letter needs shifted five to the right."

Clive was already copying down the two alphabets and the secret message on the back of the paper. The four of us crowded closer.

"So that "W" would actually be…" I silently counted forward to double check, "A "B"…"

"Yes."

"And that V…an "A"…" Bernard said.

"Goodness, why did I never think of it?" Mr. Trewinkle murmured.

This translating continued for several minutes until we had one full sentence.

 _Bartholomew_ ,

 _I now understand the true purpose of the serum._

"The true purpose?" Mr. Trewinkle gasped, going pale, "I wonder–"

His words were cut off by the soft sound of shattered glass. We all turned as one to Gemma who stood looking in confused horror at the remains of the vial at her feet.

"I told you not to drop it!" Bernard cried.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to open it, just to smell it, and it – I dunno, that smell…and then it slipped."

Gemma knelt to pick through the pieces of glass, "Maybe we can save some of it."

"Careful," I said, as her fingers grazed a shard, "You'll–"

The words died in my throat as Gemma froze, shoulders rigid, eyes blank, lips parted in a question written on her wrinkled brow.

"Gemma?"

Cold electricity crept down my neck. She rose slowly, as if through water, drawing in a deep breath.

"I…" she paused, her brow creasing further as her hand moved to brush her forehead, "My line…forgot my line…"

"Your line?"

Gemma's eyes fixed on mine, wide and blank. She grabbed my wrist, squeezing tight as a stream of words passed her lips, so rapid and tangled and breathy I could barely make them out.

"Tonight, the truth shall be revealed once and for all the one who brought the curse down upon this school let them be known let them suffer the consequences let them – "

"Gemma!"

I wrenched myself free, latching onto her shoulders, shaking her, fear and ice surging through my veins.

Gemma's eyelids fluttered, her shoulders slumped, and it seemed as if she were waking from a very long sleep.

"How was I?" she muttered, "Did I project enough?"

"Goodness me," Mr. Trewinkle whispered.

"What? What's wrong with her?" I asked, trying to keep myself from sounding frantic.

Clive and Bernard stood just behind me, frozen in shock.

"Miss Mudget…" Mr. Trewinkle continued, running his hands continuously through his hair, one after the other, "I don't understand it…but that…you… some sort of reaction to the serum…as if…is it possible?"

"What?" Gemma shook me off, "No. What? What are you talking about. That's not…"

She put a hand to her head suddenly, wincing.

"Migraines?" Mr. Trewinkle continued, "What about momentary confusion? Dizziness? These are all symptoms of the serum."

"Gemma—" I began, but she cut me off.

"I—I need to lie down for a bit. I don't feel so good."

She pushed past the four of us, unlocking the door and darting out of the lab before we could stop her.

"Do you know anything about this, Amelia?" Bernard asked. He was still studying the shards and the serum pooling at our feet as if it would provide him answers.

"No! Of course not."

"I do," Clive said, quietly. "I decoded the rest of the message."

I took the paper from him with trembling fingers and read.

 _Bartholomew_ ,

 _Meet me in in the old music room near the rotunda at eight. Make sure you're not followed._

 _If you are hesitant about coming, I want you to know I now understand the true purpose of the serum. Not only does it hide this school under a shroud of sleep, but it is being used to manipulate my granddaughter. I know your son's life is at stake, but please, we must find a way to destroy the formula. I fear the serum will permanently damage Gemma if this goes on for much longer._

 _If nothing else, meet me in the music room. Please._

 _Abigail_

"Bloody hell," Mr. Trewinkle whispered.


End file.
